LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 

Chap.. -1-- Copyright No 

Shelf..-_.-i-^ 3 ^ 



UNJTED STATES OF AMERICA 



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HOMEWARD SERENELY SHE WALKED WITH GOD'S BENEDICTION UPON HER. 
WHEN SHE HAD PASSED, IT SEEMED LIKE THE CEASING OF EXQUISITE MUSIC." 

— Evangeline, page 5. 



Poe 



ms 



BY y^ 

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 



VIGNETTE EDITION. WITH ONE HUNDRED 
NEW I L LUSTRA TIONS 



Charles Howard Johnson 




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NEW YORK 

FREDERTCK A. STOKES COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS 



Copyright, i8g^ 
By Frederick A. Stokes Company 



a-3Ui,(^ 



CONTENTS. 



PAGE 

Evangeline: A Tale of Acadie i 

The Spanish Student 62 

Voices of the Night. 

Prelude , . o . . 137 

Hymn to the Night . 140 

A Psalm of Life 141 

The Reaper and the Flowers . . . . , . . 142 

The Light of Stars ......... 143 

Footsteps of Angels 144 

Flowers .... ....... 146 

The Beleaguered City 148 

Midnight Mass for the Dying Year 150 

Earlier Poems. 

An April Day 152 

Autumn ........... 153 

Woods in Winter 154 

Hymn of the Moravian Nuns of Bethlehem .... 156 

Sunrise on the Hills 157 

The Spirit of Poetry 158 

Burial of the Minnisink 159 

V^ Translations. 

Coplas de Manrique ........ 163 

The Good Shepherd 17S 

To-morrow .......... 179 

The Native Land ......... 179 

The Image of God ......... 179 

The Brook 180 

The Celestial Pilot 180 

The Terrestrial Paradise 181 

Beatrice 183 

Spring 184 

The Child Asleep 185 

The Grave 186 

King Christian 187 



vi contents. 

PAGE 

The Happiest Land 188 

The Wave 189 

The Dead 189 

The Bird and the Ship 190 

Whither? 191 

Beware !........... 192 

Song of the Bell 192 

The Castle by the Sea ........ 194 

The Black Knight 195 

Song of the Silent Land 198 

L'Envoi 198 

Ballads and other Poems. 

The Skeleton in Armor ........ 199 

The Wreck of the Hesperus 203 

The Luck of Edenhall 207 

The Elected Knight 208 

The Children of the Lord's Supper 210 

Miscellaneous. 

The Village Blacksmith 222 

Endymion 224 

The two Locks of Hair 225 

It is not Always May 226 

The Rainy Day 227 

God's-Acre 227 

To the River Charles ......... 229 

Blind Bartimeus ......... 230 

The Goblet of Life 232 

Maidenhood 233 

Excelsior 235 

Poems on Slavery. 

To William E. Channing 237 

The Slave's Dream 238 

The Good Part, that shall not be taken away .... 239 

The Slave in the Dismal Swamp ..,.,. 240 

The Slave Singing at Midnight ...... 242 

The Witnesses .......... 243 

The Quadroon Girl • . . . . 243 

The Warning .......... 245 

The Belfry of Bruges and other Poems. 

Carillon 245 

The Belfry of Bruges 247 



Contents. vH 

PAGE 

Miscellaneous. 

A Gleam of Sunshine . . . . » . . . 249 

The Arsenal at Springfield . . . . ° . . . 250 

Nuremberg 252 

The Norman Baron 254 

Rain in Summer 256 

To a Child 258 

The Occultation of Orion 262 

The Bridge ........... 264 

To the Driving Cloud ........ 266 

Songs and Sonnets. 

Seaweed ........... 267 

The Day is Done ......... 269 

Afternoon in February ........ 270 

To an Old Danish Song-book , . . 271 

Walter von der Vogelweide ........ 273 

Drinking Song . ......... 274 

The Old Clock on the Stairs 276 

The Arrow and the Song 277 

Autumn 278 

The Evening Star 279 

Dante 279 

Translations. 

The Hemlock Tree 280 

Annie of Tharaw 280 

The Statue over the Cathedral Door 281 

The Legend of the Crossbill 282 

The Sea hath its Pearls 283 

Poetic Aphorisms 283 

Curfew 285 

The Seaside and the Fireside. 

Dedication 287 

By the Seaside. 

The Building of the Ship 288 

The Evening Star 297 

The Secret of the Sea . • 298 

Twilight 299 

Sir Humphrey Gilbert . . 300 

The Lighthouse 301 

The Fire of Drift-wood 303 

By the Fireside. 

Resignation 3^4 

The Builders 305 



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viii Contents. 

PAGE 

Sand of the Desert in an Hour-glass 306 

^Birds of Passage 308 

The Open Window ......... 309 

King Witlaf s Drinking-horn 310 

Caspar Becerra .......... 311 

Pegasus in Pound 312 

Tegner's Death ........... 313 

Sonnet on Mrs. Kemble's Readings from Shakespeare . . 315 

The Singers ........... 316 

Suspiria ' . 317 

Hymn for my Brother's Ordination ...... 317 

The Bhnd Girl of Castel-Cuille 318 

A Christmas Carol ......... 328 

Early Translations. 

Passages from Frithiof s Saga ....... 329 

Ancient Spanish Ballads ........ 334 

Praise of Little Women 336 

Let Me Go Warm ......... -^yj 

Saint Miguel, the Convent 339 

Vida de San Millan 340 

Milagros de Neustra Seiiora 342 

Song of the Rhine 342 

Hark ! Hark ! Pretty Lark ! 343 

The Nature of Love 344 

A Florentine Song 345 

The Assumption of the Virgin 346 

The Nativity of Christ 347 

The Disembodied Spirit 347 

Ideal Beauty 349 

The Lover's Complaint 349 

Song 351 

The Gentle Sigh 352 

Sicilian Canzonet ......... 352 

Tell Me, Tell Me, Thou Pretty Bee 353 

Friar Lubin 353 

Care and Melancholy 354 

Rondel 355 

Christmas Carol 355 

A Soldier's Song . 355 

Clear Honor of the Liquid Element 356 

The Return of Spring 356 

A Neapolitan Canzonet ........ 357 

Art and Nature 357 

The Two Harvests 357 




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\ \ 



A TALE OF ACADIE. 



This is the forest primeval. The murmuring pines and the hem- 
lock, 

Bearded with moss, and in garments green, indistinct in the 
twilight. 

Stand like Druids of eld, with voices sad and prophetic, 

Stand like harpers hoar, with beards that rest on their bosoms. 

Loud from its rocky caverns, the deep-voiced neighboring 
ocean 

Speaks, and in accents disconsolate answers the wail of the 
forest. 

This is the forest primeval ; but where are the hearts that be- 
neath it 

Leaped like the roe, when he hears in the woodland the voice of 
the huntsman } 

Where is the thatch-roofed village, the home of Acadian farm- 
ers, — 

Men whose lives glided on like rivers that water the woodlands, 



2 iBvamclinc, 

Darkened by shadows of earth, but reflecting an image of 
heaven ? 

Waste are those pleasant farms, and the farmers forever de- 
parted ! 

Scattered like dust and leaves, when the mighty blasts of Oc- 
tober 

Seize them, and whirl them aloft, and sprinkle them far o'er the 
ocean. 

Naught but tradition remains of the beautiful village of Grand- 
Pre. 

Ye who believe in affection that hopes, and endures, and is 
patient, 

Ye who believe in the beauty and strength of woman's devo- 
tion, 

List to the mournful tradition still sung by the pines of the for- 
est ; 

List to a Tale of Love in Acadie, home of the happy. 



PART THE FIRST. 



L 

In the Acadian land, on the shores of the Basin of Minas, 

Distant, secluded, still, the little village of Grand-Pre 

Lay in the fruitful valley. Vast meadows stretched to the east- 
ward, 

Giving the village its name, and pasture to flocks without num- 
ber. 

Dikes, that the hands of the farmers had raised with labor in- 
cessant. 

Shut out the turbulent tides ; but at stated seasons the flood- 
gates 

Opened, and welcomed the sea to wander at will o'er the 
meadows. 

West and south there were fields of flax, and orchards and corn- 
fields 

Spreading afar and unfenced o'er the plain ; and away to the 
northward 

Blomidon rose, and the forests old, and aloft on the mountains 

Sea-fogs pitched then tents, and mists from the mighty Atlantic 







meval 



4 jSvangeline. 

Looked on the happy valley, but ne'er from their station de- 
scended. 

There, in the midst of its farms, reposed the Acadian village. 

Strongly built were the houses, with frames of oak and of chest- 
nut. 

Such as the peasants of Normandy built in the reign of the 
Henries. 

Thatched were the roofs, with dormer-windows ; and gables pro- 
jecting 

Over the basement below protected and shaded the doorway. 

There in the tranquil evenings of summer, when brightly the 
sunset 

Lighted the village street, and gilded the vanes on the chim- 
neys, 

Matrons and maidens sat in snow-white caps and in kirtles 

Scarlet and blue and green, with distaffs spinning the golden 

Flax for the gossiping looms, whose noisy shuttles within doors 

Mingled their sound with the whir of the wheels and the songs 
of the maidens. 

Solemnly down the street came the parish priest, and the chil- 
dren 

Paused in their play to kiss the hand he extended to bless 
them. 

Reverend walked he among them ; and up rose matrons and 
maidens, 

Hailing his slow approach with words of affectionate welcome. 

Then came the laborers home from the field, and serenely the 
sun sank 

Down to his rest, and twilight prevailed. Anon from the belfry 

Softly the Angelus sounded, and over the roofs of the village 

Columns of pale blue smoke, like cfouds of incense ascending. 

Rose from a hundred hearths, the homes of peace and content- 
ment. 

Thus dwelt together in love these simple Acadian farmers, — 

Dwelt in the love of God and of man. Alike were they free 
from 

Fear, that reigns with the tyrant, and envy, the vice of republics. 

Neither locks had they to their doors, nor bars to their windows ; 

But their dwellings were open as day and the hearts of the 
owners ; 

There the richest was poor, and the poorest lived in abundance. 

Somewhat apart from the village, and nearer the Basin of 
Minas, 
Benedict Bellefontaine, the wealthiest farmer of Grand-Pre, 
Dwelt on his goodly acres ; and with him, directing his house- 
hold. 



;i£vanc}e[lnc. 



Gentle Evangeline lived, his child, and the pride of the village. 
Stalworth and stately in form was the man of seventy winters ; 
Hearty and hale was he, an oak that is covered with snow- 
flakes ; 
White as the snow were his locks, and his cheeks as brown as 

the oak-leaves. 
Fair was she to behold, that maiden of seventeen summers. 
Black were her eyes as the berry that grows on the thorn by the 

wayside. 
Black, yet how softly they gleaiiied beneath 

the brown shade of her tresses ! 
Sweet was her breath as the breath of kine 

that feed in the meadows. 
When in the harvest heat she bore to the 

reapers at noontide 
Flagons of home-brewed ale, ah ! fair in sooth 

was the maiden, 
Fairer was she when, on Sunday morn, while 

the bell from its turret 
Sprinkled with holy sounds the air, as the 

priest with his hyssop 
Sprinkles the congregation, and scatters bless- 
ings upon them, 
Down the long street she passed, with her 

chaplet of beads and her missal, 
Wearing her Norman cap, and her kirtle of 

blue, and the earrings. 
Brought in the olden time from France, and 

since, as an heirloom. 
Handed down from mother to child, through 

long generations. 
But a celestial brightness — a more ethereal 

beauty — 
Shone on her face and encircled her form, 

when, after confession. 
Homeward serenely she walked with God's benediction upon 

her. 
When she had passed, it seemed like the ceasing of exquisite 

music. 




REVEREND WALKED HE 
AMONG THE.M." 



Firmly builded with rafters of oak, the house of the farmer 
Stood on the side of a hill commanding the sea ; and a shady 
Sycamore grew by the door, with a woodbine wreathing around it. 
Rudely carved was the porch, with seats beneath ; and a foot- 
path 
Led through an orchard wide, and disappeared in the meadow. 
Under the sycamore-tree were hives overhung by a penthouse, 



6 Bvanoeline. 

Such as the traveller sees in regions remote by the road-side, 

Built o'er a box for the poor, or the blessed image of Mary. 

Farther down, on the slope of the hill, was the well with its 
moss-grown 

Bucket, fastened with iron, and near it a trough for the horses. 

Shielding the house from storms, on the north, were the barns 
and the farm-yard, 

There stood the broad-wheeled wains and the antique ploughs 
and the harrows ; 

There were the folds for the sheep ; and there, in his feathered 
seraglio. 

Strutted the lordly turkey, and crowed the cock, with the self- 
same 

Voice that in ages of old had startled the penitent Peter. 

Bursting with hay were the barns, themselves a village. In each 
one 

Far o'er the gable projected a roof of thatch ; and a staircase. 

Under the sheltering eaves, led up to the odorous corn-loft. 

There too the dove-cot stood, with its meek and innocent in- 
mates 

Murmuring ever of love ; while above in the variant breezes 

Numberless noisy weathercocks rattled and sang of mutation. 

Thus, at peace with God and the world, the farmer of Grand 
Pre 
Lived on his sunny farm, and Evangeline governed his house- 
hold. 
Many a youth, as he knelt in the church and opened his missal, 
Fixed his eyes upon her, as the saint of his deepest devotion ; 
Happy was he who might touch her hand or the hem of her gar- 
ment ! 
Many a suitor came to her door, by the darkness befriended, 
And, as he knocked and waited to hear the sound of her foot- 
steps. 
Knew not which beat the louder, his heart or the knocker of 

iron ; 
Or at the joyous feast of the Patron Saint of the village. 
Bolder grew, and pressed her hand in the dance as he whispered 
Hurried words of love, that seemed a part of the music. 
But, among all who came, young Gabriel only was welcome ; 
Gabriel Lajeunesse, the son of Basil the blacksmith. 
Who was a mighty man in the village, and honored of all men ; 
For since the birth of time, throughout all ages and nations. 
Has the craft of the smith been held in repute by the people. 
Basil was Benedict's friend. Their children from earliest child- 
hood 
Grew up together as brother and sister ; and Father Felician, 



JBvdimclinc, 7 

Priest and pedagogue both in tlie village, had taught them their 

letters 
Out of the selfsame book, with the hymns of the church and the 

plain-song. 
But when the hymn was sung, and the daily lesson completed, 
Swiftly they hurried away to the forge of Basil the blacksmith. 
There at the door they stood, with wondering eyes to behold him 
Take in his leathern lap the hoof of the horse as a plaything, 
Nailing the shoe in its place ; while near him the tire of the cart- 
wheel 
Lay like a fiery snake, coiled round in a circle of cinders. 
Oft on autumnal eves, when without in the gathering darkness 
Bursting with light seemed the smithy, through every cranny and 

crevice, 
Warm by the forge within they watched the laboring bellows. 
And as its panting ceased, and the sparks expired in the ashes, 
Merrily laughed, and said they were nuns going into the chapel. 
Oft on sledges in winter, as swift as the swoop of the eagle, 
Down the hillside bounding, they glided away o'er the meadow. 
Oft in the barns they climbed to the populous nests on the rafters. 
Seeking with eager eyes that wondrous stone, which the swallow 
Brings from the shore of the sea to restore the sight of its fledg- 
lings ; 
Lucky was he who found that stone in the nest of the swallow ! 
Thus passed a few swift years, and they no longer were children. 
He was a valiant youth, and his face, like the face of the morn- 
ing. 
Gladdened the earth with its light, and ripenened thought into 

action. 
She was a woman now, with the heart and hopes of a woman. 
"Sunshine of Saint Eulalie " was she called; for that was the 

sunshine 
Which, as the farmers believed, would load their orchards with 

apples. 
She, too, would bring to her husband's house delight and abun- 
dance. 
Filling it full of love and the ruddy faces of children. 



II. 

Now had the season returned, when the nights grow colder and 
longer. 

And the retreating sun the sign of the Scorpion enters. 

Birds of passage sailed through the leaden air, from the ice- 
bound. 

Desolate northern bays to the shores of tropical islands. 



8 Bvangeline. 

Harvests were gathered in ; and wild with the winds of Sej .em- 
ber 
Wrestled the trees of the forest, as Jacob of old with the agel. 
All the signs foretold a winter long and inclement. 
Bees, with prophetic instinct of want, had hoarded their hon y 




BASIL THE BLACKSMITH. 



Till the hives overflowed ; and the Indian hunters asserted 
Cold would the winter be, for thick was the fur of the foxes. 
Such was the advent of autumn. Then followed that beautiful 

season, 
Called by the pious Acadian peasants the Summer of All-Saints ! 
Filled was the air with a dreamy and magical light ; and the 

landscape 



:iEv>anc{cl(nc. 9 

Lay as if new-created in all the freshness of childhood. 

Peace seemed to reign upon earth, and the restless heart of the 

ocean 
Was for a moment consoled. All sounds were in harmony 

blended. 
Voices of children at play, the crowing of cocks in the farm- 
yards, 
Whir of wings in the drowsy air, and the cooing of pigeons, 
All were subdued and low as the murmurs of love, and the great 

sun 
Looked with the eye of love through the golden vapors around 

him ; 
While arrayed in its robes of russet and scarlet and yellow, 
Bright with the sheen of the dew, each glittering tree of the 

forest 
Flashed like the plane-tree the Persian adorned with mantles and 

jewels. 

Now recommenced the reign of rest and affection and stillness. 

Day with its burden and heat had departed, and twilight de- 
scending 

Brought back the evening star to the sky, and the herds to the 
homestead. 

Pawing the ground they came, and resting their necks on each 
other, 

And with their nostrils distended inhaling the freshness of even- 
ing. 

Foremost, hearing the bell, Evangeline's beautiful heifer, 

Proud of her snow-white hide, and the ribbon that waved from 
her collar. 

Quietly paced and slow, as if conscious of human affection. 

Then came the shepherd back with his bleating flocks from the 
seaside. 

Where was their favorite pasture. Behind them followed the 
watch-dog, 

Patient, full of importance, and grand in the pride of his in- 
stinct. 

Walking from side to side with a lordly air, and superbly 

Waving his bushy tail, and urging forward the stragglers ; 

Regent of flocks was he when the shepherd slept ; their pro- 
tector, 

W^hen from the forest at night, through the starry silence, the 
wolves howled. 

Late, with the rising moon, returned the wains from the marshes. 

Laden with briny hay that filled the air with its odor. 

Cheerily neighed the steeds, with dew on their manes and their 
fetlocks, 



10 Bvancielfne. 

While aloft on their shoulders the wooden and ponderous sad- 
dles, 

Painted with brilliant dyes, and adorned with tassels of crimson, 

Nodded in bright array, like hollyhocks heavy with blossoms. 

Patiently stood the cows meanwhile, and yielded their udders 

Unto the milkmaid's hand ; whilst loud and in regular cadence 

Into the sounding pails the foaming streamlets descended. 

Lowing of cattle and peals of laughter w^ere heard in the farm- 
yard. 

Echoed back by the barns. Anon they sank into stillness ; 

Heavily closed, with a jarring sound, the valves of the barn- 
doors. 

Rattled the wooden bars, and all for a season was silent. 

In-doors, warm by the wide-mouthed fireplace, idly the farmer 
Sat in his elbow chair, and watched how the flames and the 

smoke-wreaths 
Struggled together like foes in a burning city. Behind him, 
Nodding and mocking along the wall, with gestures fantastic, 
Darted his own huge shadow, and vanished away into darkness. 
Faces, clumsily carved in oak, on the back of his arm-chair 
Laughed in the flickering light, and the pewter plates on the 

dresser 
Caught and reflected the flame, as shields of armies the sun- 
shine. 
Fragments of song the old man sang, and carols of Christmas, 
Such as at home, in the olden time, his fathers before him 
Sang in their Norman orchards and bright Burgundian vineyards. 
Close at her father's side was the gentle Evangeline seated, 
Spinning flax for the loom, that stood in the corner behind her. 
Silent awhile were its treadles, at rest was its diligent shuttle. 
While the monotonous drone of the wheel, like the drone of a 

bagpipe. 
Followed the old man's song, and united the fragments together. 
As in a church, when the chant of the choir at intervals ceases. 
Footfalls are heard in the aisles, or words of the priest at the al- 
tar. 
So, in each pause of the song, with measured motion the clock 
clicked. 

Thus as they sat, there were footsteps heard, and, suddenly 
lifted. 

Sounded the wooden latch, and the door swung back on its 
hinges. 

Benedict knew by the hob-nailed shoes it was Basil the black- 
smith. 

And by her beating heart Evangeline knew who was with him. 



Brangelinc. 



11 



" Welcome ! " the farmer exclaimed, as their footsteps paused on 

the threshold, 
" Welcome, Basil, my friend ! Come, take thy place on the settle 
Close by the chimney-side, which is always empty without thee ; 
Take from the shelf overhead thy pipe and the box of tobacco ; 
Never so much thyself art thou as when through the curling 
Smoke of the pipe or the forge thy friendly and jovial face 

gleams 




"thus as they sat, there were footsteps heard. 



Round and red as the harvest moon through the midst of the 
marshes." 

Then, with a smile of content, thus answered Basil the black- 
smith, 

Taking with easy air the accustomed seat by the fireside : — 

" Benedict Bellefontaine, thou hast ever thy jest and thy ballad! 

Ever in cheerfullest mood art thou, when others are filled with 

Gloomy forbodings of ill, and see only ruin before them. 

Happy art thou, as if every day thou hadst picked up a horse- 
shoe." 

Pausing a moment, to take the pipe that Evangeline brought him, 



13 BvangeUne, 

And with a coal from the embers had lighted, he slowly con- 
tinued : — 
" Four days now are passed since the English ships at their an- 
chors 
Ride in the Gaspereau's mouth, with their cannon pointed against 

us. 
What their design may be is unknown ; but all are commanded 
On the morrow to meet in the church, where his Majesty's man- 
date 
Will be proclaimed as law in the land. Alas ! in the mean time 
Many surmises of evil alarm the hearts of the people." 
Then made answer the farmer : — " Perhaps some friendlier pur- 
pose 
Brings these ships to our shores. Perhaps the harvests in Eng- 
land 
By the untimely rains or untimelier heat have been blighted, 
And from our bursting barns they would feed their cattle and 

children." 
" Not so thinketh the folk in the village," said, warmly, the black- 
smith. 
Shaking his head, as in doubt; then, heaving a sigh he con- 
tinued : — 
" Louisburg is not forgotten, not Beau Sejour, nor Port Royal. 
Many already have fled to the forest, and lurk on its outskirts. 
Waiting with anxious hearts the dubious fate of to-morrow. 
Arms have been taken from us, and warlike weapon of all kinds ; 
Nothing is left but the blacksmith's sledge and the scythe of the 

mower." 
Then with a pleasant smile made answer the jovial farmer : — 
" Safer are we unarmed, in the midst of our flocks and our corn- 
fields. 
Safer within these peaceful dikes, besieged by the ocean. 
Than were our fathers in forts, besieged by the enemy's cannon. 
Fear no evil, my friend, and to-night may no shadow of sorrow 
Fall on this house and hearth ; for this is the night of the con- 
tract. 
Built are the house and the barn. The merry lads of the vil- 
lage 
Strongly have built them and well ; and, breaking the glebe round 

about them. 
Filled the barn with hay, and the house with food for a twelve- 
month. 
Rene Leblanc will be here anon, with his papers and ink-horn. 
Shall we not then be glad, and rejoice in the joy of our children ? " 
As apart by the window she stood, with her hand in her lover's, 
Blushing Evangeline heard the words that her father had spoken, 
And as they died on his lips, the worthy notary entered. 



Bvancjeline. 



13 



III. 



Bent like a laboring oar, that toils in the surf of the ocean, 
Iknt, but not broken, by age was the form of the notary public; 
Shocks of yellow hair, like the silken floss of the maize, hung 
Over his shoulders ; his forehead was high ; and glasses with 

horn bows 
vSat astride on his nose, with a look of wisdom supernal. 
Father of twenty children was he, and more 

than a hundred 
Children's children rode on his knee, and 

heard his great watch tick. 
Four long years in the times of the war had 

he languished a captive. 
Suffering much in an old French fort as the 

friend of the English. 
Now, though warier grown, without all 

guile or suspicion, 
Ripe in wisdom was he, but patient, and 

simple, and childlike. 
He was beloved by all, and most of all by 

the children ; 
For he told them tales of the Loup-garou 

in the forest. 
And of the goblin that came in the night to 

water the horses. 
And of the white Letiche, the ghost of a 

child who unchristened 
Died, and was doomed to haunt unseen the 

chambers of children ; 
And how on Christmas eve the oxen talked 

in the stable, 
And how the fever was cured by a spider 

shut up in a nutshell, 
And of the marvellous powers of four- 
leaved clover and horseshoes. 
With whatsoever else was writ in the lore of the village. 
Then up rose from his seat by the fireside Basil the blacksmith, 
Knocked from his pipe the ashes, and slowly extending his right 

hand, 
" Father Leblanc," he exclaimed, " thou hast heard the talk in the 

village. 
And, perchance, canst tell us some news of these ships and their 

errand." 
Then with modest demeanor made answer the notary public, — 
" Gossip enough have 1 heard, in sooth, yet am never the wiser ; 




" THE WORTHY NOTARY EN- 
TERED." 



14 J^vancieline. 

And what their errand may be I know not better than others. 
Yet am I not of those who imagine some evil intention 
Brings them here, for we are at peace ; and why then molest us ? " 
" God's name ! " shouted the hasty and somewhat irascible black- 
smith ; 
" Must we in all things look for the how, and the why, and the 

wherefore ? 
Daily injustice is done, and might is the right of the strongest ! " 
But, without heeding his warmth, continued the notary public — 
" Man is unjust, but God is just ; and finally justice 
Triumphs ; and well I remember a story, that often consoled 

me, 
When as a captive I lay in the old French fort at Port Royal." 
This was the old man's favorite tale, and he loved to repeat it 
Whenever neighbors complained that any injustice was done 

them. 
" Once in an ancient city, whose name I no longer remember, 
Raised aloft on a column, a brazen statue of Justice 
Stood in the public square, upholding the scales in its left 

hand. 
And in its right a sword, as an emblem that justice presided 
Over the laws of the land, and the hearts and homes of the 

people. 
Even the birds had built their nests in the scales of the balance, 
Having no fear of the sword that flashed in the sunshine above 

them. 
But in the course of time the laws of the land were corrupted ; 
Might took the place of right, and the weak were oppressed, and 

the mighty 
Ruled with an iron rod. Then it chanced in a nobleman's pal- 
ace 
That a necklace of pearls vv-as lost, and erleong a suspicion 
Fell on an orphan girl who lived as maid in the household. 
She, after form of trial condemned to die on the scaffold. 
Patiently met her doom at the foot of the statue of Justice. 
As to her Father in heaven her innocent spirit ascended, 
Lo ! o'er the city a tempest rose ; and the bolts of the thunder 
Smote the statue of bronze, and hurled in wrath from its left 

hand 
Down on the pavement below the clattering scales of the bal- 
ance, 
And in the hollow thereof was found the nest of a magpie. 
Into whose clay-built walls the necklace of pearls was inwoven." 
Silenced, but not convinced, when the story was ended, the 

blacksmith 
Stood like a man who fain would speak, but findeth no lan- 
guage ; 



JSvancicline, 



II 



And all his thoughts congealed into lines on his face, as the 

vapors 
Freeze in fantastic shapes on the window-panes in the winter. 

Then Evangeline lighted the brazen lamp on the table, 
Filled, till it overflowed, the pewter tankard with home-brewed 
Nut-brown ale, that was famed for its strength in the village of 
Grand-Pre ; 




" WROTE WITH A STEADY HAND." 



While from his pocket the notary drew his papers and ink-horn, 
Wrote with a steady hand the date and the age of the parties, 
Naming the dower of the bride in flocks of sheep and in cattle. 
Orderly all things proceeded, and duly and well were completed, 
And the great seal of the law was set like a sun on the margin. 
Then from his leathern pouch the farmer threw on the table 
Three times the old man's fee in solid pieces of silver ; 
And the notary rising, and blessing the bride and the bride- 
groom, 



16 jEvanaelinc, 

Lifted aloft the tankard of ale and drank to their welfare. 
Wiping the foam from his lip, he solemnly bowed and departed, 
While in silence the others sat and mused by the fireside, 
Till Evangeline brought the draught-board out of its corner. 
Soon was the game begun. In friendly contention the old men 
Laughed at each lucky hit, or unsuccessful manoeuvre, 
Laughed when a man was crowned, or a breach was made in 

the king-row. 
Meanwhile apart, in the twilight gloom of a window's embra- 
sure, 
Sat the lovers, and whispered together, beholding the moon rise 
Over the pallid sea and the silvery mist of the meadows. 
Silently one by one, in the infinite meadows of heaven, 
Blossomed the lovely stars, the forget-me-nots of the angels. 

Thus passed the evening away. Anon the bell from the bel- 
fry 
Rang out the hour of nine, the village curfew, and straightway 
Rose the guests and departed ; and silence reigned in the house- 

,hold. 
Many a farewell word and sweet good-night on the door-step 
Lingered long in Evangeline's heart, and tilled it with gladness. 
Carefully then were covered the embers that glowed on the 

hearth-stone. 
And on the oaken stairs resounded the tread of the farmer. 
Soon with a soundless step the foot of Evangeline followed. 
Up the staircase moved a luminous space in the darkness, 
Lighted less by the lamp than the shining face of the maiden. 
Silent she passed through the hall, and entered the door of her 

chamber. 
Simple that chamber was, with its curtains of white, and its 

clothes-press 
Ample and high, on whose spacious shelves were carefully 

folded 
Linen and woollen stuffs, by the hand of Evangeline woven. 
This was the precious dower she would bring to her husband in 

marriage. 
Better than flocks and herds, being proofs of her skill as a 

housewife. 
Soon she extinguished her lamp, for the mellow and radiant 

moonlight 
Streamed through the windows, and lighted the room, till the 

heart of the maiden 
Swelled and obeyed its power, like the tremulous tides of the 

ocean. 
Ah ! she was fair, exceeding fair to behold, as she stood with 
Naked snow-white feet on the gleaming floor of her chamber ! 



iBvmcicUnc, 17 

Little she dreamed that below, amone^ the trees of the orchard, 
Waited her lover and watched for the gleam of her lamp and 

her shadow. 
Yet were her thoughts of him, and at times a feeling of sadness 
Passed o'er her soul, as the sailing shade of clouds in the moon- 
light 
Flitted across the floor and darkened the room for a moment. 
And, as she gazed from the window, she saw serenely the moon 

pass 
Forth from the folds of a cloud, and one star follow her foot- 
steps. 
As out of Abraham's tent young Ishmael wandered with Ha- 
gar! 

IV. 

Pleasantly rose next morn the sun on the village of 
Grand-Pre. 

Pleasantly gleamed in the soft, sweet air the Basin of Minas, 

Where the ships, with their wavering shadows, were riding at 
anchor. 

Life had long been astir in the village, and clamorous labor 

Knocked with its hundred hands at the golden gates of the 
morning. 

Now from the country around, from the farms and the neigh- 
boring hamlets, 

Came in their holiday dresses the blithe Acadian peasants. 

Many a glad good-morrow and jocund laugh from the young 
folk 

Made the bright air brighter, as up from the numerous meadows, 

Where no path could be seen but the track of wheels in the 
greensward. 

Group after group appeared, and joined, or passed on the high- 
way. 

Long ere noon, in the village all sounds of labor were silenced. 

Thronged were the streets with people ; and noisy groups at the 
house-doors 

Sat in the cheerful sun, and rejoiced and gossiped together. 

Every house was an inn, where all were welcomed and feasted ; 

For with this simple people, who lived like brothers together. 

All things were held in common, and what one had was 
another's. 

Yet under lienedict's roof hospitality seemed more abundant : 

For Evangeline stood among the guests of her father ; 

Bright was her face with smiles, and words of welcome and 
gladness 

Fell from her beautiful lips, and blessed the cup as she gave it. 
2 



18 Bvan(;eline. 

Under the open sky, in the odorous air of the orchard, 

Bending with golden fruit, was spread the feast of betrothal. 

There in the shade of the porch were the priest and the notary- 
seated ; 

There good Benedict sat, and sturdy Basil the blacksmith. 

Not far withdrawn from these, by the cider-press and the bee- 
hives, 

Michael the fiddler was placed, with the gayest of hearts and 
of waistcoats. 

Shadow and light from the leaves alternately played on his 
snow-white 

Hair, as it waved in the wind ; and the jolly face of the tiddler 

Glowed like a living coal when the ashes are blown from the em- 
bers. 

Gayly the old man sang to the vibrant sound of his fiddle, 

Tons Ics Bourgeois de C/iartres, and Le Ca?'illoii de Dunkcrque, 

And anon with his wooden shoes beat time to the music. 

Merrily, merrily whirled the wheels of the dizzying dances 

Under the orchard-trees and down the path to the meadows ; 

Old folk and young together, and children mingled among them. 

Fairest of all the maids was Evangeline, Benedict's daughter ! 

Noblest of all the youths was Gabriel, son of the blacksmith ! 

So passed the morning away. And lo ! with a summons so- 
norous 

Sounded the bell from its tower, and over the meadows a drum 
beat. 

Thronged ere long was the church with men. Without, in the 
churchyard, 

Waited the women. They stood by the graves, and hung on the 
headstones 

Garlands of autumn-leaves and evergreens fresh from the forest. 

Then came the guard from the ships, and marching proudly 
among them 

Entered the sacred portal. With loud and dissonant clangor 

Echoed the sound of their brazen drums from ceiling and case- 
ment, — 

Echoed a moment only, and slowly the ponderous portal 

Closed, and in silence the crowd awaited the will of the soldiers. 

Then uprose their commander, and spake from the steps of the 
altar, 

Holding aloft in his hands, with its seals, the royal commission. 

" You are convened this day," he said, " by his Majesty's orders. 

Clement and kind has he been ; but how you have answered his 
kindness. 

Let your own hearts reply ! To my natural make and my temper 

Painful the task is I do, which to you I know must be grievous. 




«« HOLDING ALOFT IN HIS HANDS, WITH ITS SEALS, THE ROYAL COiMMISSION." 



20 Bvancjeline, 

Yet must I bow and obey, and deliver the will of our monarch ; 
Namely, that all your lands, and dwellings, and cattle of all 

kinds 
Forfeited be to the crown ; and that you yourselves from this 

province 
Be transported to other lands. God grant you may dwell there 
Ever as faithful subjects, a happy and peaceable people ! 
Prisoners now I declare you ; for such is his Majesty's pleasure ! " 
As, when the air is serene in the sultry solstice of summer. 
Suddenly gathers a storm, and the deadly sling of the hailstones 
Beats down the farmer's corn in the field and shatters his win- 
dows, 
Hiding the sun, and strewing the ground with thatch from the 

house-roofs, 
Bellowing fly the herds, and seek to break their enclosures ; 
So on the hearts of the people descended the words of the speaker. 
Silent a moment they stood in speechless wonder, and then rose 
Louder and ever louder a wail of sorrow and anger. 
And, by one impulse moved, they madly rushed to the door-way. 
Vain was the hope of escape ; and cries and fierce imprecations 
Rang through the house of prayer ; and high o'er the heads of 

the others 
Rose, wn'th his arms uplifted, the figure of Basil the blacksmith, 
As, on a stormy sea, a spar is tossed by the billows. 
Flushed was his face and distorted with passion ; and wildly he 

shouted, — 
" Down with the tyrants of England ! we never have sworn them 

allegiance ! 
Death to these foreign soldiers, who seize on our homes and our 

harvests ! " 
More he fain would have said, but the merciless hand of a sol- 
dier 
Smote him upon the mouth, and dragged him down to the pave- 
ment. 

In' the midst of the strife and tumult of angry contention 
Lo ! the door of the chancel opened, and Father Felician 
Entered, with serious mien, and ascended the ste])s of the altar. 
Raising his reverend hand, with a gesture he awed into silence 
All that clamorous throng ; and thus he spake to his people ; 
Deep were his tones and solemn ; in accents measured and 

mournful 
Spake he, as, after the tocsin's alarum, distinctly the clock strikes. 
" What is this that ye do, my children.? what madness has seized 

you .-* 
Forty years of my life have I labored among you, and taught you, 
Not in word alone, but in deed, to love one another ! 



Bv>ancielinc. 21 

Is this the fruit of my toils, of my vigils and prayers and priva- 
tions ? 

Have you so soon forgotten all lessons of love and forgiveness? 

This is the house of the Prince of Peace, and would you pro- 
fane it 

Thus with violent deeds and hearts overflowing with hacred ? 

Lo ! where the crucified Christ from his cross is gazing upon 
you I 

See ! in those sorrowful eyes what meekness and holy compas- 
sion ! 

Hark ! how those lips still repeat the prayer, ' O Father, forgive 
them ! ' 

Let us repeat that prayer in the hour when the wicked assail us, 

Let us repeat it now, and say, ' O Father, forgive them ! ' " 

Few were his words of rebuke, but deep in the hearts of his peo- 
ple 

Sank they, and sobs of contrition succeeded that passionate out- 
break, 

And they repeated his prayer, and said, " O Father, forgive 
them ! " 

Then came the evening service. The tapers gleamed from 
the altar. 

Fervent and deep was the voice of the priest, and the people re- 
sponded. 

Not with their lips alone, but their hearts ; and the Ave Maria 

Sang they, and fell on their knees, and their souls, with devotion 
translated. 

Rose on the ardor of prayer, like Elijah ascending to heaven. 

Meanwhile had spread in the village the tidings of ill, and on 
all sides 

Wandered, wailing, from house to house the women and children. 

Long at her father's door Evangeline stood, with her right hand 

Shielding her eyes from the level rays of the sun, that, descend- 
ing, 

Lighted the village street with mysterious splendor, and roofed 
each 

Peasant's cottage with golden thatch, and emblazoned its win- 
dows. 

Long within had been spread the snow-white cloth on the table ; 

There stood the wheaten loaf, and the honey fraJ^rant with wild- 
flowers ; 

There stood the tankard of ale, and the cheese fresh brought 
from the dairy ; 

And, at the head of the board, the great arm-chair of the farmer. 

Thus did Evangeline wait at her father's door, as the sunset 



32 Bvancieline. 

Threw the long shadows of trees o'er the broad ambrosial mead- 
ows. 
Ah ! on her spirit within a deeper shadow had fallen, 
And from the fields of her soul a fragrance celestial ascended, — 
Charity, meekness, love, and hope, and forgiveness, and patience ! 
Then, all-forgetful of self, she wandered into the village, 
Cheering with looks and words the disconsolate hearts of the 

women. 
As o'er the darkening fields with lingering steps they departed. 
Urged by their household cares, and the weary feet of their chil- 
dren. 
Down sank the great red sun, and in golden, glimmering vapors 
Veiled the light of his face, like the Prophet descending from 

Sinai. 
Sweetly over the village the bell of the Angelas sounded. 

Meanwhile, amid the gloom, by the church Evangeline lin- 
gered. 
All was silent within ; and in vain at the door and the windows 
Stood she, and listened and looked, until, overcome by emotion, 
" Gabriel ! " cried she aloud with tremulous voice ; but no answer 
Came from the graves of the dead, nor the gloomier grave of the 

living. 
Slowly at length she returned to the tenantless house of her 

father. 
Smouldered the fire on the hearth, on the board stood the supper 

untasted, 
Empty and drear was each room, and haunted with phantoms of 

terror. 
Sadly echoed her step on the stair and the floor of her chamber. 
In the dead of the night she heard the whispering rain fall 
Loud on the withered leaves of the scycamore-tree by the window. 
Keenly the lightning flashed ; and the voice of the echoing 

thunder 
Told her that God was in heaven, and governed the world he 

created ! 
Then she remembered the tale she had heard of the justice of 

Heaven ; 
Soothed was her troubled soul, and she peacefully slumbered till 

morning. 

V. 

Four times the sun had risen and set ; and now on the fifth 
day 

Cheerily called the cock to the sleeping maids of the farm- 
house. 



JBvnmcUnc, 23 

Soon o'er the yellow fields, in silent and mournful procession, 
Came from the neighboring hamlets and farms the Acadian 

women, 
Driving in ponderous wains their household goods to the sea- 
shore, 
Pausing and looking back to gaze once more on their dwellings, 
Ere they were shut from sight by the winding road and the wood- 
land. 
Close at their sides their children ran, and urged on the oxen. 
While in their little hands they clasped some fragments of play- 
things. 

Thus to the Gaspereau's mouth they hurried ; and there on 
the sea-beach 

Piled in confusion lay the household goods of the peasants. 
, All day long between the shore and the ships did the boats ply ; 

All day long the wains came laboring down from the village. 

Late in the afternoon, when the sun was near to his setting, 

Echoing far o'er the fields came the roll of drums from the 
church-yard. 

Thither the women and children thronged. On a sudden the 
church-doors 

Opened, and forth came the guard, and marching in gloomy 
procession 

Followed the long-imprisoned, but patient, Acadian farmers. 

Even as pilgrims, who journey afar from their homes and their 
country, 

Sing as they go, and in singing forget they are weary and way- 
worn. 

So with songs on their lips the Acadian peasants descended 

Down from the church to the shore, amid their wives and their 
daughters. 

Foremost the young men came ; and, raising together their 
voices. 

Sang they with tremulous lips a chant of the Catholic Mis- 
sions : — 

" Sacred heart of the Saviour ! O inexhaustible fountain ! 

Fill our hearts this day with strength and submission and pa- 
tience ! " 

Then the old men, as they marched, and the women that stood 
by the way-side 

Joined in the sacred psalm, and the birds in the sunshine above 
them 

Mingled their notes therewith, like voices of spirits departed. 

Half-way down to the shore Evangeline waited in silence. 
Not overcome with grief, but strong in the hour of affliction, — 



V 




^ It 



1 1^\..'^ Wf 

'joined in the sacred psalm." 



JEvancjeline. 



25 



Calmly and sadly waited, until the procession approached her, 
And she beheld the face of Gabriel pale with emotion. 
Tears then filled her eyes, and, eagerly runnino;- to meet him, 
Clasped she his hands, and laid her head on his shoulder, and 
whispered, — 



/l::^. 




\^v^2 



"she CLASl'ED HIS NECK AND E.MUKACEU HIM." 



" Gabriel ! be of good cheer ! for if we love one another, 
Nothing, in truth, can harm us, whatever mischances may hap- 
pen ! " 
Smiling she spake these words ; then suddenly paused, for her 
father 



26 Bvancjeline. 

Saw she slowly advancing. Alas ! how changed was his aspect ! 

Gone was the glow from his cheek, and the fire from his eye, 
and his footstep 

Heavier seemed with the weight of the weary heart in his 
bosom. 

But with a smile and a sigh, she clasped his neck and embraced 
him, 

Speaking words of endearment where words of comfort availed 
not. 

Thus to the Gaspereau's mouth moved on that mournful pro- 
cession. 

There disorder prevailed, and the tumult and stir of embark- 
ing. 

Busily plied the freighted boats ; and in the confusion 

Wives were torn from their husbands, and mothers, too late, 
saw their children 

Left on the land, extending their arms, with wildest entreaties. 

So unto separate ships were Basil and Gabriel carried, ' 

While in despair on the shore Evangeline stood with her father. 

Half the task was not done when the sun went down, and the 
twilight 

Deepened and darkened around ; and in haste the refluent 
ocean 

Fled away from the shore, and left the line of the sand-beach 

Covered with waifs of the tide, with kelp and the slippery sea- 
weed. 

Farther back in the midst of the household goods and the 
wagons. 

Like to a gypsy camp, or a leaguer after a battle. 

All escape cut off by the sea, and the sentinels near them, 

Lay encamped for the night the houseless Acadian farmers. 

Back to its nethermost caves retreated the bellowing ocean, 

Dragging adown the beach the rattling pebbles, and leaving 

Inland and far up the shore the stranded boats of the sailors. 

Then, as the night descended, the herds returned from their pas- 
tures ; 

Sweet was the moist still air with the odor of milk from their 
udders ; 

Lowing they waited, and long, at the well-known bars of the 
farm -yard, — 

Waited and looked in vain for the voice and the hand of the 
milkmaid. 

Silence reigned in the streets ; from the church no Angelus 
sounded, 

Rose no smoke from the roofs, and gleamed no lights from the 
windows. 



But on the shores meanwhile the evening fires had been kin- 
dled, 

Built of the drift-wood thrown on the sands from wrecks in the 
tempest, 

Round them shapes of gloom and sorrowful faces were gath- 
ered. 

Voices of women were heard, and of men, and the crying of 
children. 

Onward from fire to fire, as from hearth to hearth in his par- 
ish, 

Wandered the faithful priest, consoling and blessing and cheer- 
ing. 

Like unto shipwrecked Paul on Melita's desolate sea-shore. 




" SILENCE REIGNED IN THE STREETS." 

Thus he approached the place where Evangeline sat with her 

father, 
And in the flickering light beheld the face of the old man, 
Haggard and hollow and wan, and without either thought or 

emotion. 
E'en as the face of a clock from which the hands have been 

taken. 
Vainly Evangeline strove with words and caresses to cheer 

him. 
Vainly offered him food ; yet he moved not, he looked not, he 

spake not. 
But, with a vacant stare, ever gazed at the flickering fire- 
light. 
" Bcncdicite f murmured the priest, in tones of compassion. 
More he fain would have said, but his heart was full, and his 

accents 



28 iBvmxQclinc. 

Faltered and paused on his lips, as the feet of a child on a thresh- 
old, 

Hushed by the scene he beholds, and the awful presence of sor- 
row. 

Silently, therefore, he laid his hand on the head of the maiden, 

Raising his eyes full of tears, to the silent stars that above 
them 

Moved on their way, unperturbed by the wrongs and sorrows of 
mortals. 

Then sat he down at her side, and they wept together in si- 
lence. 

Suddenly rose from the south a light, as in autumn the blood- 
red 

Moon climbs the crystal walls of heaven, and o'er the horizon 

Titan-like stretches its hundred hands upon mountain and 
meadow, 

Seizing the rocks and the rivers, and piling huge shadows to- 
gether. 

Broader and ever broader it gleamed on the roofs of the village, 

Gleamed on the sky and the sea, and the ships that lay in the 
roadstead. 

Columns of shining smoke uprose, and flashes of flame were 

Thrust through their folds and withdrawn, like the quivering 
hands of a martyr. 

Then as the wind seized the gleeds and the burning thatch, and, 
uplifting. 

Whirled them aloft through the air, at once from a hundred 
house-tops 

Started the sheeted smoke with flashes of flame intermingled. 

These things beheld in dismay the crowd on the shore and on 
shipboard. 
Speechless at first they stood, then cried aloud in their anguish, 
" We shall behold no more our homes in the village of Grand- 

Pre ! " 
Loud on a sudden the cocks began to crow in the farm-yards, 
Thinking the day had dawned ; and anon the lowing of cattle 
Came on the evening breeze, by the barking of dogs interrupted. 
Then rose a sound of dread, such as startles the sleeping en- 
campments 
Far in the western prairies or forests that skirt the Nebraska, 
When the wild horses affrighted sweep by with the speed of the 

whirlwind, 
Or the loud bellowing herds of buffaloes rush to the river. 
Such was the sound that arose on the night, as the herds and 
the horses 



lBx>m\Qcline. 29 

Broke through their folds and fences, and madly rushed o'er the 
meadows. 

Overwhelmed with the sight, yet speechless, the priest and the 

maiden 
Gazed on the scene of terror that reddened and widened before 

them ; 
And as they turned at length to speak to their silent companion 
Lo ! from his seat he had fallen, and stretched abroad on the 

sea-shore 
Motionless lay his form, from which the soul had departed. 
Slowly the priest uplifted the Hfeless head, and the maiden 
Knelt at her father's side, and wailed aloud in her terror. 
Then in a swoon she sank, and lay with her head on his bosom. 
Through the long night she lay in deep, oblivious slumber ; 
And when she woke from the trance, she beheld a multitude 

near her. 
Faces of friends she beheld, that were mournfully gazing upon 

her, 
Pallid, with tearful eyes, and looks of saddest compassion. 
Still the blaze of the burning village illumined the landscape. 
Reddened the sky overhead, and gleamed on the faces around 

her. 
And like the day of doom it seemed to her wavering senses. 
Then a familiar voice she heard, as it said to the people, — 
" Let us bury him here by the sea. When a happier season 
Brings us again to our homes from the unknown land of our 

exile, 
Then shall his sacred dust be piously laid in the churchyard." 
Such were the words of the priest. And there in haste by the 

sea-side. 
Having the glare of the burning village for funeral torches. 
But without bell or book, they buried the farmer of Grand-Pre. 
And as the voice of the priest repeated the service of sorrow, 
Lo ! with a mournful sound, like the voice of a vast congrega- 
tion. 
Solemnly answered the sea, and mingled its roar with the dirges. 
'Twas the returning tide, that afar from the waste of the ocean, 
With the first dawn of the day, came heaving and hurrying 

landward. 
Then recommenced once more the stir and noise of embarking ; 
And with the ebb of that tide the ships sailed out of the harbor, 
Leaving behind them the dead on the shore, and the village in 

ruins. 






j%. 



m. 



y 



'■\ 



Bvangeline, 31 



PART THE SECOND. 



I. 

Many a weary year had passed since the burning of Grand- 

Pre, 
When on the falling tide the freighted vessels departed, 
Bearing a nation, with all its household gods, into exile, 
Exile without an end, and without an example in story. 
Far asunder, on separate coasts, the Acadians landed ; 
Scattered were they, like flakes of snow, when the wind from 

the northeast 
Strikes aslant through the fogs that darken the Banks of New- 
foundland. 
Friendless, homeless, hopeless, they wandered from city to city, 
From the cold lakes of the North to sultry Southern savannas, — 
From the bleak shores of the sea to the lands where the Father 

of Waters 
Seizes the hills in his hands, and drags them down to the ocean, 
Deep in their sands to bury the scattered bones of the mam- 
moth. 
Friends they sought and homes ; and many, despairing, heart- 
broken, 
Asked of the earth but a grave, and no longer a friend nor a fire- 
side. 
Written their history stands on tablets of stone in the church- 
yards. 
Long among them was seen a maiden who waited and wan- 
dered. 
Lowly and meek in spirit, and patiently suffering all things. 
Fair was she and young ; but, alas ! before her extended, 
Dreary and vast and silent, the desert of life, with its pathway 
Marked by the graves of those who had sorrowed and suffered 

before her. 
Passions long extinguished, and hopes long dead and aban- 
doned, 
As the emigrant's way o'er the Western desert is marked by 
Camp-fires long consumed, and bones that bleach in the sun- 
shine. 
Something there was in her life incomplete, imperfect, un- 
finished ; 
As if a morning of June, with all its music and sunshine. 
Suddenly paused in the sky, and, fading, slowly descended 
Into the east again, from whence it late had arisen. 



82 Bvangeline. 

Sometimes she lingered in towns, till, urged by the fever within 

her, 
Urged by a restless longing, the hunger and thirst of the spirit, 
She would commence again her endless search and endeavor ; 
vSometimes in church-yards strayed, and gazed on the crosses 

and tombstones, 
Sat by some nameless grave, and thought that perhaps in its 

bosom 
He was already at rest, and she longed to slumber beside him. 
Sometimes a rumor, a hearsay, an inarticulate whisper, 
Came with its airy hand to point and beckon her forward. 
Sometimes she spake with those who had seen her beloved and 

known him, 
But it was long ago, in some far-off place or forgotten. 
" Gabriel Lajeunesse ! " said they ; " O yes ! we have seen him. 
He was with Basil the blacksmith, and both have gone to the 

prairies ; 
Coureurs-des-Bois are they, and famous hunters and trappers." 
" Gabriel Lajeunesse ! " said others ; " O yes ! we have seen 

him. 
He is a I'oyageur in the lowlands of Louisiana." 
Then would they say, " Dear child ! why dream and wait for 

him longer ? 
Are there not other youths as fair as Gabriel ? others 
Who have hearts as tender and true, and spirits as loyal ? 
Here is Baptiste Leblanc, the notary's son, who has loved thee 
Many a tedious year ; come, give him thy hand and be happy ! 
Thou art too fair to be left to braid St. Catherine's tresses." 
Then would Evangeline answer, serenely but sadly, " I cannot ! 
Whither my heart has gone, there follows my hand, and not 

elsewhere. 
For when the heart goes before, like a lamp, and illumines the 

pathway, 
Many things are made clear, that else lie hidden in darkness." 
And thereupon the priest, her friend and father-confessor. 
Said, with a smile, " O daughter ! thy God thus speaketh 

within thee ! 
Talk not of wasted affection, affection never was wasted ; 
If it enrich not the heart of another, its waters, returning 
Back to their springs, like the rain, shall fill them full of refresh- 
ment ; 
That which the fountain sends forth returns again to the foun- 
tain. 
Patience ; accomplish thy labor ; accomplish thy work of affec- 
tion ! 
Sorrow and silence are strong, and patient endurance is god- 
like. 







' K 



34 BvnmcUne. 

Therefore accomplish thy labor of love, till the heart is made 
godlike, 

Purified, strengthened, perfected, and rendered more worthy of 
heaven ! " 

Cheered by the good man's words, Evangeline labored and 
waited. 

Still in her heart she heard the funeral dirge of the ocean. 

But with its sound there was mingled a voice that whispered, 
" Despair not ! " 

Thus did that poor soul wander in want and cheerless discom- 
fort, 

Bleeding, barefooted, over the shards and thorns of existence. 

Let me essay, O Muse ! to follow the wanderer's footsteps ; — 

Not through each devious path, each changeful year of exist- 
ence ; 

But as a traveller follows a streamlet's course through the valley : 

Far from its margin at times, and seeing the gleam of its water 

Here and there, in some open space, and at intervals only ; 

Then drawing nearer its banks, through sylvan glooms that con- 
ceal it, 

Though he behold it not, he can hear its continuous murmur ; 

Happy, at length, if. he find the spot where it reaches an outlet. 



n. 

It was the month of May, Far down the Beautiful River, 
Past the Ohio shore and past the mouth of the Wabash, 
Into the golden stream of the broad and swift Mississippi, 
Floated a cumbrous boat, that was rowed by Acadian boatmen. 
It was a band of exiles : a raft, as it were, from the shipwrecked 
Nation, scattered along the coast, now floating together. 
Bound by the bonds of a common belief and a common misfor- 
tune ; 
Men and women and children, who, guided by hope or by hear- 
say. 
Sought for their kith and their kin among the few-acred farmers 
On the Acadian coast, and the prairies of fair Opelousas. 
With them Evangeline went, and her guide, the Father Felician. 
Onward o'er sunken sands, through a wilderness sombre with 

forests, 
Day after day they glided adown the turbulent river ; 
Night after night, by their blazing fires, encamped on its borders. 
Now through rushing chutes, among green islands, where plume- 
like 
Cotton-trees nodded their shadowy crests, they swept with the 
current, 



Brancieline. 35 

Then emerged into broad lagoons, where silvery sand-bars 
Lay in the stream, and along the wimpling waves of their mar- 
gin, 
Shining with snow-white plumes, large flocks of pelicans waded. 
Level the landscape grew, and along the shores of the river. 
Shaded by china-trees, in the midst of luxuriant gardens. 
Stood the houses of planters, with negro-cabins and dove-cots. 
They were approaching the region where reigns perpetual sum- 
mer, 
Where through the Golden Coast, and groves of orange and 

citron. 
Sweeps with majestic curve the river away to the eastward. 
They, too, swerved from their course ; and, entering the Bayou 

of Plaquemine, 
Soon were lost in a maze of sluggish and devious waters. 
Which, like a network of steel, extended in every direction. 
Over their heads the towering and tenebrous boughs of the 

cypress 
Met in a dusky arch, and trailing mosses in mid-air 
Waved like banners that hang on the walls of ancient cathe- 
drals. 
Deathlike the silence seemed, and unbroken, save by the herons 
Home to their roosts in the cedar-trees returning at sunset. 
Or by the owl, as he greeted the moon with demoniac laughter. 
Lovely the moonlight was as it glanced and gleamed on the 

water, 
Gleamed on the columns of cypress and cedar sustaining the 

arches, 
Down through whose broken vaults it fell as through chinks in a 

ruin. 
Dreamlike, and indistinct, and strange were all things around 

them ; 
And o'er their spirits there came a feeling of wonder and sad- 
ness, — 
vStrange forebodings of ill, unseen and that cannot be compassed. 
As, at the tramp of a horse's hoof on the turf of the prairies. 
Far in advance are closed the leaves of the shrinking mimosa. 
So, at the hoof-beats of fate, with sad forebodings of evil. 
Shrinks and closes the heart, ere the stroke of doom has at- 
tained it. 
But Evangeline's heart was sustained by a vision, that faintly 
Floated before her eyes, and beckoned her on through the moon- 
light. 
It was the thought of her brain that assumed the shape of a 

phantom. 
Through those shadowy aisles had Gabriel wandered before her, 
And every stroke of the oar now brought him nearer and nearer. 



36 ^Evanc^eline, 

Then in his place, at the prow of the boat, rose one of the oars- 
men, 

And, as a signal sound, if others like them peradventure 

Sailed on those gloomy and midnight streams, blew a blast on 
his bugle. 

Wild through the dark colonnades and corridors leafy the blast 
rang. 

Breaking the seal of silence, and giving tongues to the forest. 

Soundless above them the banners of moss just stirred to the 
music. 

Multitudinous echoes awoke and died in the distance. 

Over the watery floor, and beneath the reverberant branches ; 

But not a voice replied ; no answer came from the darkness ; 

And, when the echoes had ceased, like a sense of pain was the 
silence. 




WATER-LILIES IN MYRIADS. 



Then Evangeline slept ; but the boatmen rowed through the 

midnight, 
Silent at times, then singing familiar Canadian boat-songs. 
Such as they sang of old on their own Acadian rivers. 
And through the night were heard the mysterious sounds of the 

desert, 
Far off, indistinct, as of wave or wind in the forest. 
Mixed with the whoop of the crane and the roar of the grim alli- 
gator. 

Thus ere another noon they emerged from those shades ; and 
before them 
Lay, in the golden sun, the lakes of the Atchafalaya. 
Water-lilies in myriads rocked on the slight undulations 
Made by the passing oars, and, resplendent in beauty, the lotus 
Lifted her golden crown above the heads of the boatmen. 
Faint was the air with the odorous breath of magnolia blossoms, 



iSvnnQcUnc, 37 

And with the heat of noon ; and numberless sylvan islands, 

Fragrant and thickly embowered with blossoming hedges of 
roses, 

Near to whose shores they glided along, invited to slumber. 

Soon by the fairest of these their weary oars were suspended. 

Under the boughs of Wachita willows, that grew by the margin, 

Safely their boat was moored ; and scattered about on the green- 
sward, 

Tired with their midnight toil, the weary travellers slumbered. 

Over them vast and high extended the cope of a cedar. 

Swinging from its great arms, the trumpet-flower and the grape- 
vine 

Hung their ladder of ropes aloft like the ladder of Jacob, 

On whose pendulous stairs the angels ascending, descending, 

Were the swift humming-birds, that flitted from blossom to 
blossom. 

Such was the vision Evangeline saw as she slumbered beneath it. 

filled was her heart with love, and the dawn of an opening 
heaven 

Lighted her soul in sleep with the glory of regions celestial. 

Nearer, and ever nearer, among the numberless islands, 
Darted a light, swift boat, that sped away o'er the water. 
Urged on its course by the sinewy arms of hunters and trappers. 
Northward its prow was turned, to the land of the bison and 

beaver. 
At the helm sat a youth, with countenance thoughtful and care- 
worn. 
Dark and neglected locks overshadowed his brow, and a sad- 
ness 
Somewhat beyond his years on his face was legibly written. 
Gabriel was it, who, weary with waiting, unhappy and restless, 
Sought in the Western wilds oblivion of self and of sorrow. 
Swiftly they glided along, close under the lee of the island. 
But by the opposite bank, and behind a screen of palmettos. 
So that they saw not the boat, where it lay concealed in the wil- 
lows, 
And undisturbed by the dash of their oars, and unseen, were the 

sleepers, 
Angel of God was there none to awaken the slumbering 

maiden. 
Swiftly they glided away, like the shade of a cloud on the 

prairie. 
After the sound of their oars on the tholes had died in the dis- 
tance, 
As from a magic trance the sleepers awoke, and the maiden 
Said with a sigh to the friendly priest, " O Father Felician ! 



38 jevangellne. 

Something says in my heart that near me Gabriel wanders. 

Is it a foolish dream, an idle and vague superstition ? 

Or has an angel passed, and revealed the truth to my spirit ? " 

Then, with a blush, she added, " Alas for my credulous fancy ! 

Unto ears like thine such words as these have no meaning." 

But made answer the reverend man, and he smiled as he an- 
swered, — 

" Daughter, thy words are not idle ; nor are they to me without 
meaning. 

Feeling is deep and still ; and the word that floats on the sur- 
face 

Is as the tossing buoy, that betrays where the anchor is hidden. 

Therefore trust to thy heart, and to what the world calls illu- 
sions. 

Gabriel truly is near thee ; for not far away to the southward, 

On the banks of the Teche, are the towns of St. Maur and St. 
Martin. 

There the long-w^andering bride shall be given again to her 
bridegroom. 

There the long-absent pastor regain his flock and his sheep- 
fold. 

Beautiful is the land, with its prairies and forests of fruit- 
trees ; 

Under the feet a garden of flowers, and the bluest of heavens 

Bending above, and resting its dome on the walls of the forest. 

They who dwell there have named it the " Eden of Louisiana." 

And with these words of cheer they arose and continued their 
journey. 
Softly the evening came. The sun from the western horizon 
Like a magician extended his golden wand o'er the landscape ; 
Twinkling vapors arose ; and sky and water and forest 
Seemed all on Are at the touch, and melted and mingled to- 
gether. 
Hanging between two skies, a cloud with edges of silver, 
Floated the boat, with its dripping oars, on the motionless 

water. 
Filled was Evangeline's heart with inexpressible sweetness. 
Touched by the magic spell, the sacred fountains of feeling 
Glowed with the light of love, as the skies and waters around 

her. 
Then from a neighboring thicket the mocking-bird, wildest of 

singers. 
Swinging aloft on a willow spray that hung o'er the water. 
Shook from his little throat such floods of delirious music. 
That the whole air and the woods and the waves seemed silent 
to listen. 



J6v>angcUne» 3y 

Plaintive at first were the tones and sad ; then soaring to mad- 
ness 

Seemed they to follow or guide the revel of frenzied Bacchantes. 

Single notes were then heard, in sorrowful, low lamentation ; 

Till, having gathered them all, he Hung them abroad in deri- 
sion. 

As when, after a storm, a gust of wind through the tree-tops 

Shakes down the rattling rain in a crystal shower on the 
branches. 

With such a prelude as this, and hearts that throbbed with emo- 
tion. 

Slowly they entered the Teche, where it flows through the green 
Opelousas, 

And through the amber air, above the crest of the woodland, 

Saw the column of smoke that arose from a neighboring dwell- 
ing ; — 

Sounds of a horn they heard, and the distant lowing of cattle. 



III. 

Near to the bank of the river, o'ershadowed by oaks, from 

whose branches 
Garlands of Spanish moss and of mystic mistletoe flaunted, 
Such as the Druids cut down with golden hatchets at Yule- 
tide, 
Stood, secluded and still, the house of the herdsman. A gar- 
den 
Girded it round about with a belt of luxuriant blossoms, 
Filling the air with fragrance. The house itself was of tim- 
bers 
Hewn from the cypress-tree, and carefully fitted together. 
Large and low was the roof ; and on slender columns sup- 
ported, 
Rose-wreathed, vine-encircled, a broad and spacious veranda, 
Haunt of the humming-bird and the bee, extended around it. 
At each end of the house, amid the flowers of the garden. 
Stationed the dove-cots were, as love's perpetual symbol, 
Scenes of endless wooing, and endless contentions of rivals. 
Silence reigned o'er the place. The line of shadow and sun- 
shine 
Ran near the tops of the trees ; but the house itself was in 

shadow, 
And from its chimney-top, ascending and slowly expanding 
Into the evening air, a thin blue column of smoke rose. 
In the rear of the house, from the garden gate, ran a path- 
way 



40 jEvanacline. 

Through the great groves of oak to the skirts of the Hmitless 

prairie, 
Into whose sea of flowers the sun was slowly descending. 
Full in his track of light, like ships with shadowy canvas 
Hanging loose from their spars in a motionless calm in the 

tropics. 
Stood a cluster of trees, with tangled cordage of grapevines. 

Just where the woodlands met the flowery surf of the prairie. 

Mounted upon his horse, with Spanish saddle and stirrups, 

Sat a herdsman, arrayed in gaiters and doublet of deerskin. 

Broad and brown was the face that from under the Spanish 
sombrero 

Gazed on the peaceful scene, with the lordly look of its master. 

Round about him were numberless herds of kine, that were 
grazing 

Quietly in the meadows, and breathing the vapory freshness 

That uprose from the river, and spread itself over the land- 
scape. 

Slowly lifting the horn that hung at his side, and expanding 

Fully his broad, deep chest, he blew a blast, that resounded 

Wildly and sweet and far, through the still damp air of the 
evening. 

Suddenly out of the grass the long white horns of the cattle 

Rose like flakes of foam on the adverse currents of ocean. 

Silent a moment they gazed, then bellowing rushed o'er the 
prairie. 

And the whole mass became a cloud, a shade in the distance. 

Then, as the herdsman turned to the house, through the gate of 
the garden 

Saw he the forms of the priest and the maiden advancing to 
meet him. 

Suddenly down from his horse he sprang in amazement, and 
forward 

Rushed with extended arms and exclamations of wonder ; 

When they beheld his face, they recognized Basil the black- 
smith. 

Hearty his welcome was, as he led his guests to the garden. 

There in an arbor of roses with endless question and answer 

Gave they vent to their hearts, and renewed their friendly em- 
braces. 

Laughing and weeping by turns, or sitting silent and thought- 
ful. 

Thoughtful, for Gabriel came not ; and now dark doubts and 
misgivings 

Stole o'er the maiden's heart; and Basil, somewhat embar- 
rassed, 



Brangcline. 41 

Broke the silence and said, " If you came by the Atchafalaya, 

How have you nowhere encountered my Gabriel's boat on the 
bayous? " 

Over Evangehne's face at the words of liasil a shade passed. 

Tears came into her eyes, and she said, with a tremulous accent : 

"Gone? is Gabriel gone?" and, concealing her face on his 
shoulder, 

All her o'erburdened heart gave way, and she wept and la- 
mented. 

Then the good Basil said, — and his voice grew blithe as he said 
it, — 

" Be of good cheer, my child ; it is only to-day he departed. 

Foolish boy ! he has left me alone with my herds and my 
horses. 

Moody and restless grown, and tried and troubled, his spirit 

Could no longer endure the calm of this quiet existence. 

Thinking ever of thee, uncertain and sorrowful ever. 

Ever silent, or speaking only of thee and his troubles. 

He at length had become so tedious to men and to maidens, 

Tedious even to me, that at length I bethought me, and sent 
him 

Unto the town of Adayes to trade for mules with the Spaniards. 

Thence he will follow the Indian trails to the Ozark Mountains, 

Hunting for furs in the forests, on rivers trapping the beaver. 

Therefore be of good cheer ; we will follow the fugitive lover ; 

He is not far on his way, and the Fates and the streams are 
against him. 

Up and away to-morrow, and through the red dew of the morn- 
ing 

We will follow him fast, and bring him back to his prison." 

Then glad voices were heard, and up from the banks of the 
river. 
Borne aloft on his comrades' arms, came Michael the fiddler. 
Long under Basil's roof had he lived like a god on Olympus, 
Having no other care than dispensing music to mortals. 
Far renowned was he for his silver locks and his fiddle. 
" Long live Michael," they cried, " our brave Acadian min- 
strel ! " 
As they bore him aloft in triumphal procession ; and straight- 
way 
Father Felician advanced with Evangeline, greeting the old man 
Kindly and oft, and recalling the past, while Basil, enraptured. 
Hailed with hilarious joy his old companions and gossips. 
Laughing loud and long, and embracing mothers and daughters. 
Much they marvelled to see the wealth of the ci-devant black- 
smith, 



42 



JEvaiiiiclinc. 



All his domains and his herds, and liis patriarchal demeanor ; 
Much they marvelled to hear his tales of the soil and the 

climate, 
And of the prairies, whose numberless herds were his who 

would take them ; 
Each one thought in his heart, that he, too, would go and do 

likewise. 
Thus they ascended the steps, and, crossing the airy veranda. 





" HUNTING FOR FURS IN THE FORESTS." 



Entered the hall of the house, where already the supper of Basil 
Waited his late return ; and they rested and feasted together. 

Over the joyous feast the sudden darkness descended. 

All was silent without, and, illuming the landscape with silver. 

Fair rose the dewy moon and the myriad stars ; but within 
doors. 

Brighter than these, shone the faces of friends in the glimmer- 
ing lamplight. 

Then from his station aloft, at the head of the table, the herds- 
man 



Brancielinc. 43 

Poured forth his heart and his wine togetlier in endless profu- 
sion. 

Lighting his pipe, that was filled with sweet Natchitoches to- 
bacco, 

Thus he spake to his guests, who listened, and smiled as they 
listened : — 

" Welcome once more, my friends, who so long have been 
friendless and homeless. 

Welcome once more to a home, that is better perchance than 
the old one ! 

Here no hungry winter congeals our blood like the rivers ; 

Here no stony ground provokes the wrath of the farmer. 

Smoothly the ploughshare runs through the soil, as a keel 
through the \\ater. 

All the year round the orange -groves are in blossom ; and grass 
grows 

More in a single night than a whole Canadian summer. 

Here, too, numberless herds run wild and unclaimed in the 
prairies ; 

Here, too, lands may be had for the asking, and forests of timber 

With a few blows of the axe are hewn and framed into houses. 

After your houses are built, and your fields are yellow with 
harvests. 

No King (ieorge of England shall drive you away from your 
homesteads. 

Burning your dwellings and barns, and stealing your farms and 
your cattle." 

Speaking these words, he blew a wrathful cloud from his nos- 
trils. 

And his huge, brawny hand came thundering down on the table. 

So that the guests all started ; and Father Felician, astounded, 

vSuddenly paused, with a pinch of snuff half-way to his nostrils. 

But the brave Basil resumed, and his words were milder and 
gayer : — 

" Only beware of the fever, my friends, beware of the fever ! 

For it is not like that of our cold Acadian climate. 

Cured by wearing a spider hung round one's neck in a nut- 
shell ! " ' 

Then there were voices heard at the door, and footsteps ap- 
proaching 

Sounded upon the stairs and the floor of the breezy veranda. 

It was the neighboring Creoles and small Acadian planters. 

Who had been summoned all to the house of Basil the Herds- 
man. 

Merry the meeting was of ancient comratles and neighbors ; 

Friend clasped friend in his arms; and ihey who before were as 
strangers, 



44 



lEvanaclinc. 



Meeting in exile, became straightway as friends to each other, 
Drawn by the gentle bond of a common country together. 
Hut in the neighboring hall a strain of music, proceeding 
From the accordant strings of Michael's melodious fiddle, 



'^^'^il^SS^^SST" 







" KKO.M THE ACCOKUANT STRINGS 1>K MICHAEL's MELODIOIS FIDDLE." 



Uroke up all further speech. Away, like children delighted. 
All things forgotten beside, they gave themselves to the mad- 
dening 
\\'hirl of the dizzy dance, as it swept and swayed to the music. 
Dreamlike, with beaming eyes and the rush of fluttering gar- 
ments. 



JEvancieline. 45 

Meanwhile, apart, at the head of the hall, the priest and the 
herdsman 
Sat, conversing together of past and present and future ; 
While Evangeline stood like one entranced, for within her 
Olden memories rose, and loud in the midst of the music 
Heard she the sound of the sea, and an irrepressible sadness 
Came o'er her heart, and unseen she stole forth into the garden. 
Beautiful was the night. Behind the black wall of the forest. 
Tipping its summit with silver, arose the moon. On the river 
Fell here and there through the branches a tremulous gleam of 

the moonlight. 
Like the sweet thoughts of love on a darkened and devious 

spirit. 
Nearer and round about her, the manifold Howers of the garden 
Poured out their souls in odors, that were their prayers and con- 
fessions 
Unto the night, as it went its way, like a silent Carthusian. 
Fuller of fragrance than they, and as heavy with shadows and 

night-dews, 
Hung the heart of the maiden. The calm and the magical 

moonlight 
Seemed to inundate her soul with indefinable longings. 
As, through the garden gate, beneath the brown shade of the 

oak-trees, 
Passed she along the path to the edge of the measureless 

prairie. 
Silent it lay, with a silvery haze upon it, and fire-flies 
(ileaming and floating away in mingled and infinite numbers. 
Over her head the stars, the thoughts of Cod in the heavens. 
Shone on the eyes of man, who had ceased to marvel and wor- 
ship. 
Save when a blazing comet was seen on the walls of that 

temple, 
As if a hand had appeared and written upon them, " Upharsin." 
And the soul of the maiden, between the stars and the fire- 
flies, 
Wandered alone, and she cried, " O Gabriel : O my beloved ! 
Art thou so near unto me, and yet I cannot behold thee ? 
Art thou so near unto me, and yet thy voice does not reach me ? 
Ah ! how often thy feet have trod this path to the prairie ! 
Ah ! how often thine eyes have looked on the woodlands around 

me ! 
Ah! how often beneath this oak, returning from labor. 
Thou hast lain down to rest, and to tlream of me in thy slum- 
bers ! 
When shall these eyes behold, these arms be folded about thee ? " 
Loud and sudden and near the note of a whippoorwill sounded 



46 



JEvangcUne. 




X^ • - 



/ 

"and, from the moonlit meadow, a sigh responded, 'to-morrow 



Like a flute in the woods ; and anon, through the neighboring 
thickets, 

Farther and farther away it floated and dropped into silence. 

" Patience ! " whispered the oaks from oracular caverns of dark- 
ness : 

And, from the moonlit meadow, a sigh responded, " To-morrow I " 

Bright rose the sun next day ; and all the flowers of the garden 

Bathed his shining feet with their tears, and anointed his tresses 

With the delicious balm that they bore in their vases of crystal. 

" Farewell ! " said the priest, as he stood at the shadowy thresh- 
old ; 

" See that you bring us the Prodigal Son from his fasting and 
famine, 

And, too, the Foolish Virgin, who slept when the bridegroom 
was coming." 

" Farewell ! " answered the maiden, and, smiling, with Basil de- 
scended 

Down to the river's brink, where the boatmen already were wait- 
ing. 

Thus beginning their journey with morning, and sunshine, and 
gladness. 

Swiftly they followed the flight of him who was speeding before 
them, 

Blown by the blast of fate like a dead leaf over the desert. 



Not that day, nor the next, nor yet the day that succeeded, 
Found they trace of his course, in lake or forest or river, 
Nor, after many days had they found him ; but vague and uncer- 
tain 
Rumors alone were their guides through a wild and desolate 

country ; 
Till, at the little inn of the Spanish town of Adayes, 
Weary and worn, they alighted, and learned from the garrulous 

landlord. 
That on the day before, with horses and guides and companions, 
Gabriel left the village, and took the road of the prairies. 



IV. 

Far in the West there lies a desert land, where the mountains 
Lift, through perpetual snows, their lofty and luminous summits. 
Down from their jagged, deep ravines, where the gorge, like a 

gateway, 
Opens a passage rude to the wheels of the emigrant's wagon, 
Westward the Oregon flows and the Walleway and Owyhee. 
Eastward, with devious course, among the Wind-river Moun- 
tains, 
Through the Sweet- water Valley precipitate leaps the Nebraska ; 
And to the south, from Fontaine-qui-bout and the Spanish sierras, 
Fretted with sands and rocks, and swept by the wind of the 

desert, 
Numberless torrents, with ceaseless sound, descend to the 

ocean. 
Like the great chords of a harp, in loud and solemn vibrations. 
Spreading between these streams are the wondrous, beautiful 

prairies. 
Billowy bays of grass ever rolling in shadow and sunshine. 
Bright with luxuriant clusters of roses and purple amorphas. 
Over them wander the buffalo herds, and the elk and the roe- 
buck ; 
Over them wander the wolves, and herds of riderless horses ; 
Fires that blast and blight, and winds that are weary with travel ; 
Over them wander the scattered tribes of Ishmael's children. 
Staining the desert with blood ; and above their terrible war-trails 
Circles and sails aloft, on pinions majestic, the vulture. 
Like the implacable soul of a chieftain slaughtered in battle. 
By invisible stairs ascending and scaling the heavens. 
Here and there rise smokes from the camps of these savage ma- 
rauders ; 
Here and there rise groves from the margins of swift-running 
rivers : 



48 



Bv>ancjeline. 



1 



And the grim, taciturn bear, the anchorite monk of the desert. 
Climbs down their dark ravines to dig for roots by the brook- 
side. 
And over all is the sky, the clear and crystalline heaven, 

Like the protecting hand of God 
inverted above them. 

Into this wonderful land, at 
the base of the Ozark 
Mountains, 

Gabriel far had entered, with 
hunters and trappers be- 
hind him. 

Day after day, with their Indian 
guides, the maiden and 
i3asil 

Followed his flying steps, and 
thought each day to o'er- 
take him. 

Sometimes they saw, or thought 
they saw, the smoke of 
his camp-fire 

Rise in the morning air from 
the distant plain ; but at 
nightfall. 

When they had reached the 
place, they found only em- 
bers and ashes. 

And, though their hearts were 
sad at times and their 
bodies were weary, 

Hope still guided them on, as 
the magic Fata Morgana 

Showed them her lakes of light, 
that retreated and vanished 
before them. 




a- 



" over them wander the scattered tribes 
ishmael's children." 



Once, as they sat by their 
evening fire, there silently 
entered 
Into the little camp an Indian 
woman, whose features 
Wore deep traces of sorrow, and patience as great as her sorrow. 
She was a Shawnee woman returning home to her people, 
From the far-off hunting-grounds of the cruel Camanches, 
Where her Canadian husband, a Coureur-des-Bois, had been 
murdered. 




^ml'^j'[W 



'' THERE SILENTLY ENTERED INTO J HE LITTLE CAMl' AN INDIAN WOMAN." 



50 lEvanc^cline. 

Touched were their hearts at ht-r story, and warmest and friend- 
liest welcome 
Gave they, with words of cheer, and she sat and feasted amonj^- 

them 
On the buffalo-meat and the venison cooked on the embers. 
But when their meal was done, and Basil and all his companions. 
Worn with the long day's march and the chase of the deer and 

the bison, 
Stretched themselves on the ground, and slept where the quiver- 
ing fire-light 
Flashed on their swarthy cheeks, and their forms wrapped up in 

their blankets 
Then at the door of Evangeline's tent she sat and repeated 
Slowly, with soft, low .voice, and the charm of her Indian accent, 
All the tale of her love, with its pleasures, and pains, and re- 
verses. 
Much Evangeline wept at the tale, and to know that another 
Hapless heart like her own had loved and had been disappointed. 
Moved to the depths of her soul by pity and woman's compas- 
sion, 
Yet in her sorrow pleased that one who had suffered was near 

her. 
She in turn related her love and all its disasters. 
Mute with wonder the Shawnee sat, and when she had ended 
Still was mute ; but at length, as if a mysterious horror 
Passed through her brain, she spake, and repeated the tale of the 

Mowis ; 
Mowis, the bridegroom of snow% who won and wedded a maiden. 
But, when the morning came, arose and passed from the wig- 
wam, 
Fading and melting away and dissolving into the sunshine. 
Till she beheld him no more, though she followed far into the 

forest. 
Then, in those sweet, low tones, that seemed like a weird incan- 
tation, 
Told she the tale of the fair Lilinau, who was wooed by a phan- 
tom. 
That, through the pines o'er her father's lodge, in the hush of 

the twilight, 
Breathed like the evening wind, and whispered love to the maiden. 
Till she followed his green and waving plume through the forest. 
And never more returned, nor was seen again by her people. 
Silent with wonder and strange surprise, Evangeline listened 
To the soft flow of her magical words, till the region around her 
Seemed like enchanted ground, and her swarthy guest the en- 
chantress. 
Slowly over the tops of the Ozark Mountains the moon rose, 



Lij^hting the little tent, and with a mysterious splendor 
Touehinii; the sombre leaves, and embracing- and tilling- the wood- 
land. 
With a delicious sound the brook rushed by, and the branches 
Swayed and siiJ^hed overhead in scarcely audible whispers. 
Filled with the thoui^hts of love was Kvanj^eline's heart, but a 

secret, 
Subtile sense crept in of pain and indefinite terror, 
As the cold, poisonous snake creeps into the nest of tfie swallow. 
It was no earthly fear. A breath from the region of spirits 
Seemed to Hoat in the air of night ; and she felt for a mo- 
ment 



SLOWLY OVER THE TOPS OF THE OZAKK ^rOUNTAI^•S THE MOON KOSE." 

That, like the Indian maid, she, too, was pursuing a phan- 
tom. 

And with this thought she slept, and the fear and the phantom 
had vanished. 

Early upon the morrow the march was resumed ; and the 
Shawnee 

Said, as they journeyed along, " On the western slope of these 
mountains 

Dwells in his little village the Black Robe chief of the Mis- 
sion. 

Much he teaches the people, and tells them of Mary and Jesus ; 

Loud laugh their hearts with joy, and weep with pain, as they 
hear him." 



52 



iBvamcline. 



Then, with a sudden and secret emotion, Evangeline answered, 
" Let us go to the Mission, for there good tidings await us ! " 
Thither they turned their steeds ; and behind a spur of the 

mountains. 
Just as the sun went down, they heard a murmur of voices, 
And in a meadow green and broad, by the bank of a river, 
Saw the tents of the Christians, the tents of the Jesuit Mis- 
sion. 
Under a towering oak, that stood in the midst of the village. 
Knelt the Black Robe chief with his children. A crucifix fast- 
ened 
High on the trunk of the tree, and overshadowed by grape- 
vines, 
Looked with its agonized face on the multitude kneeling be- 
neath it. 
This was their rural chapel. Aloft, through the intricate arches 
Of its aerial roof, arose the chant of their vespers, 
Mingling its notes with the soft susurrus and sighs of the 

branches. 
Silent, with heads uncovered, the travellers, nearer approach- 
ing. 
Knelt on the swarded floor, and joined in the evening devo- 
tions. 
But when the service was done, and the benediction had fallen 
Forth from the hands of the priest, like seed from the hands of 

the sower, 
Slowly the reverend man advanced to the strangers, and bade 

them 
Welcome ; and when they replied, he smiled with benignant ex- 
pression, 
Hearing the homelike sounds of his mother-tongue in the for- 
est. 
And, with words of kindness, conducted them into his wigwam. 
There upon mats and skins they reposed, and on cakes of the 

maize-ear 
Feasted, and slaked their thirst from the water-gourd of the 

teacher. 
Soon was their story told ; and the priest with solemnity an- 
swered : — 
" Not six suns have risen and set since Gabriel, seated 
On this mat by my side, where now the maiden reposes. 
Told me this same sad tale ; then arose and continued his jour- 
ney ! " 
Soft was the voice of the priest, and he spake with an accent of 

kindness; 
But on Evangeline's heart fell his words as in winter the snow- 
flakes 



iBvancicUnc. 



58 




"'patience!' the I'KIEST VVOIT.D SAY." 

Fall into some lone nest from which the birds have departed. 
" Far to the north he has gone," continued the priest; " but in 

autumn, ^t- • 

When the chase is done, will return again to the Mission. 
Then Evangeline said, and her voice was meek and submis- 

" Let me remain with thee, for mv soul is sad and afflicted." 

So seemed it wise and well unto all ; and betimes on the mor- 
row, , 

Mounting his Mexican steed, with his Indian guides and com- 
panions, u M- 

Homeward Basil returned, and Evangeline stayed at the Mis- 
sion. 

Slowly, slowly, slowly the days succeeded each other,— 
Days and weeks and months ; and the fields of maize that were 

springing 
Green from the ground when a stranger she came, now waving 

above her, , r • 

Lifted their slender shafts, with leaves interlacing, and forming- 
Cloisters for mendicant crows and granaries pillaged by squir- 
rels. 



54 iSvamclinc, 

Then in the golden weather the maize was husked, and the 
maidens 

Blushed at each blood-red ear, for that betokened a lover, 

But at the crooked laughed, and called it a thief in the corn- 
field. 

Even the blood-red ear to Evangeline brought not her lover. 

" Patience I " the priest would say ; " have faith, and thy prayer 
will be answered ! 

Look at this delicate plant that lifts its head from the meadow. 

See how its leaves all point to the north, as true as the magnet ; 







t :>^ 



" THE hunter's lodge DESERTED AND FALLEN TO RUIN ! " 

It is the compass-flower, that the finger of God has suspended 
Here on its fragile stalk, to direct the traveller's journey 
Over the sea-like, pathless, limitless waste of the desert. 
Such in the soul of man is faith. The blossoms of passion. 
Gay and luxuriant flowers, are brighter and fuller of fragrance, 
But they beguile us, and lead us astray, and their odor is deadly. 
Only this humble plant can guide us here, and hereafter 
Crown us with asphodel flowers, that are wet with the dews of 
nepenthe." 

So came the autumn, and passed, and the winter. — yet Gabriel 
came not ; 



Blossomed the opeiiinj;' s|)i-ini>-, and the notes of the robin and 

bluebird 
Sounded sweet upon wold and in wood, yet (iabriel eanie not. 
Ikit on the breath of the summer winds a rumor was wafted 
Sweeter than song of bird, or hue or odor of blossom. 
Far to the north and east, it said, in the Michij^an forests, 
Gabriel had his lodge by the banks of the Saginaw River. 
And, with returning guides, that sought the lakes of St. Law- 
rence, 
Saying a sad farewell, Evangeline went from the Mission. 
When over weary ways, by long and perilous marches, 
She had attained at length the depths of the Michigan forests. 
Found she the hunter's lodge deserted and fallen to ruin I 

Thus did the long sad years glide on, and in seasons and 
places 
Divers and distant far was seen the wandering maiden ; — 
Now in the Tents of Grace of the meek Moravian Missions, 
Now in the noisy camps and the battle-fields of the army, 
Now in secluded hamlets, in towns and populous cities. 
Like a phantom she came, and passed away unremembered. 
Fair was she and young, when in hope began the long jour- 
ney ; 
Faded was she and old, when in disappointment it ended. 
Each succeeding year stole something away from her beauty, 
Leaving behind it, broader and deeper, the gloom and the 

shadow. 
Then there appeared and spread faint streaks of gray o'er her 

forehead. 
Dawn of another life, that broke o'er her earthly horizon. 
As in the eastern sky the first faint streaks of the morning. 



V. 

In that delightful land which is washed by the Delaware's 

waters. 
Guarding in sylvan shades the name of Fenn the apostle. 
Stands on the' banks of its beautiful stream the city he founded. 
There all the air is balm, and the peach is the emblem of 

beauty. 
And the streets still re-echo the names of the trees of the forest. 
As if they fain would appease the Dryads whose haunts they 

molested. 
There from the troubled sea had Evangeline landed, an exile. 
Finding among the children of Penn a home and a country. 
There old Reiie Leblanc had died ; and when he departed, 



56 JBvnngclinc, 

Saw at his side only one of all his hundred descendants. 
Something at least there was in the friendly streets of the 

city, 
Something that spake to her heart, and made her no longer a 

stranger ; 
And her ear was pleased with the Thee and Thou of the 

Quakers, 
For it recalled the past, the old Acadian country, 
Where all men were equal, and all were brothers and sisters. 
So, when the fruitless search, the disappointed endeavor. 
Ended, to recommence no more upon earth, uncomplaining, 
Thither, as leaves to the light, were turned her thoughts and her 

footsteps. 
As from a mountain's top the rainy mists of the morning 
Roll away, and afar we behold the landscape below us. 
Sun-illumined, with shining rivers and cities and hamlets. 
So fell the mists from her mind, and she saw the world far be- 
low her, 
Dark no longer, but all illumined with love ; and the pathway 
Which she had climbed so far, lying smooth and fair in the dis- 
tance. 
Gabriel was not forgotten. Within her heart was his image. 
Clothed in the beauty of love and youth, as last she beheld him. 
Only more beautiful made by his deathlike silence and absence. 
Into her thoughts of him time entered not, for it was not. 
Over him years had no power ; he was not changed, but trans- 
figured ; 
He had become to her heart as one who is dead, and not absent ; 
Patience and abnegation of self, and devotion to others. 
This was the lesson a life of trial and sorrow had taught her. 
So was her love diffused, but, like to some odorous spices, 
Suffered no waste nor loss, though filling the air with aroma. 
Other hope had she none, nor wish in life, but to follow 
Meekly, with reverent steps, the sacred feet of her Saviour. 
Thus many years she lived as a Sister of Mercy ; frequenting 
Lonely and wretched roofs in the crowded lanes of the city. 
Where distress and want concealed themselves from the sun- 
light. 
Where disease and sorrow in garrets languished neglected. 
Night after night, when the world was asleep, as the watchman 

repeated 
Loud, through the gusty streets, that all was well in the city, 
High at some lonely window he saw the light of her taper. 
Day after day, in the gray of the dawn, as slow through the sub- 
urbs 
Plodded the German farmer, with flowers and fruits for the 
market, 



IBvangcUnc, 



57 



Met he that meek, pale face, returning home from his watch- 
ings. 

Then it came to pass that a pestilence fell on the city, 
Presaged by wondrous signs, and mostly by flocks of wild 

pigeons. 
Darkening the sun in their flight, with naught in their craws but 

an acorn. 
And, as the tides of the sea arise in the month of Sep- 
tember, 




* " ,'i'^ 



AS THE WATCHMAN REPEATED, LOUD THROUGH THE GUSTY STREETS, THAT 
ALL WAS WELL IN THE CITY," 



Flooding some silver stream, till it spreads to a lake in the 

meadow, 
So death flooded life, and, o'erflowing its natural margin, 
Spread to a brackish lake, the silver stream of existence. 
Wealth had no power to bribe, nor beauty to charm, the op- 
pressor ; 
But all perished alike beneath the scourge of his anger ; — 
Only, alas ! the poor, who had neither friends nor attendants. 
Crept away to die in the almshouse, home of the homeless. 
Then in the suburbs it stood, in the midst of meadows and 

woodlands ; — 
Now the city surrounds it ; but still, with its gateway and wicket- 



58 Bvancjeline. 

Meek, in the midst of splendor, its humble walls seem to echo 
Softly the words of the Lord : — " The poor ye always have with 

you." 
Thither, by night and by day, came the Sister of Mercy. The 

dying 
Looked up into her face, and thought, indeed, to behold there 
Gleams of celestial light encircle her forehead with splendor, 
Such as the artist paints o'er the brows of saints and apostles. 
Or such as hangs by night o'er a city seen at a distance. 
Unto their eyes it seemed the lamps of the city celestial. 
Into whose shining gates erelong their spirits would enter. 

Thus, on a Sabbath morn, through the streets, deserted and 
silent. 

Wending her quiet way, she entered the door of the almshouse. 

Sweet on the summer air was the odor of flowers in the garden ; 

And she paused on her way to gather the fairest among them. 

That the dying once more might rejoice in their fragrance and 
beauty. 

Then, as she mounted the stairs to the corridors, cooled by the 
east-wind. 

Distant and soft on her ear fell the chimes from the belfr}' of 
Christ Church, 

While, intermingled with these, across the meadows were wafted 

Sounds of psalms, that were sung by the Swedes in their church 
at Wicaco. 

Soft as descending wings fell the calm of the hour on her spirit ; 

Something within her said, " At length thy trials are ended " ; 

And, with light in her looks, she entered the chambers of sick- 
ness. 

Noiselessly moved about the assiduous, careful attendants. 

Moistening the feverish lip, and the aching brow, and in silence 

Closing the sightless eyes of the dead, and concealing their 
faces. 

Where on their pallets they lay, like drifts of snow by the road- 
side. 

Many a languid head, upraised as Evangeline entered. 

Turned on its pillow of pain to gaze wfiile she passed, for her 
presence 

Fell on their hearts like a ray of the sun on the walls of a prison. 

And, as she looked around, she saw how Death, the consoler. 

Laying his hand upon many a heart, had healed it forever. 

Many familiar forms had disappeared in the night time ; 

Vacant their places were, or filled already by strangers. 

Suddenly, as if arrested by fear or a feeling of wonder, 
Still she stood, with her colorless lips apart, while a shudder 



Bvancicline. 59 

Ran through her frame, and, forgotten, the flowerets dropped 
from her fingers, 

And from her eyes and cheeks the Hght and bloom of the morn- 
ing. 

Then there escaped from her lips a cry of such terrible anguish. 

That the dying heard it, and started up from their pillows. 

On the pallet before her was stretched the form of an old man. 

Long, and thin, and gray were the locks that shaded his 
temples ; 

But, as he lay in the morning light, his face for a moment 

Seemed to assume once more the forms of its earlier manhood ; 

So are wont to be changed the faces of those who are dying. 

Hot and red on his lips still burned the flush of the fever, 

As if life, like the Hebrew, with blood had besprinkled its 
portals. 

That the Angel of Death might see the sign, and pass over. 

Motionless, senseless, dying, he lay, and his spirit exhausted 




^4^, 



WAS STRETCHED THE FORM OF AN OLD MAN." 

Seemed to be sinking down through infinite depths in the dark- 
ness. 

Darkness of slumber and death, forever sinking and sinking. 

Then through those realms of shade, in multiplied reverbera- 
tions. 

Heard he that cry of pain, and through the hush that succeeded 

Whispered a gentle voice, in accents tender and saint-like, 

" Gabriel ! O my beloved ! " and died away into silence. 

Then he beheld, in a dream, once more the' home of his child- 
hood ; 

Green Acadian meadows, with sylvan rivers among them. 



60 Bvancjelinc. 

V^illage, and mountain, and woodlands ; and, walking under 

their shadow, 
As in the days of her youth, Evangeline rose in his vision. 
Tears came into his eyes ; and as slowly he lifted his eyelids, 
Vanished the vision away, but Evangeline knelt by his bedside. 




" ALL WAS ENDED NOW, THE HOPE, AND THE FEAR, AND THE SORROW." 

Vainly he strove to whisper her name, for the accents unuttered 
Died on his lips, and their motion revealed what his tongue 

would have spoken. 
Vainly he strove to rise ; and Evangeline, kneeling beside him, 
Kissed his dying lips, and laid his head on her bosom. 
Sweet w^as the light of his eyes ; but it suddenly sank into dark- 
ness, 
As when a lamp is blown out by a gust of wind at a casement. 

All was ended now, the hope, and the fear, and the sorrow. 
All the aching of heart, the restless, unsatisfied longing. 
All the dull, deep pain, and constant anguish of patience ! 
And, as she pressed once more the lifeless head to her bosom, 
Meekly she bowed her own, and murmured, " Father, I thank 
thee." 



Still stands the forest primeval ; but far away from its shadow, 
Side by side, in their nameless graves, the lovers are sleeping. 
Under the humble walls of the little Catholic churchyard, 
In the heart of the city, they lie, unknown and unnoticed. 
Daily the tides of life go ebbing and flowing beside them, 



JEv^mclinc, 



61 



Thousands of throbbing hearts, where theirs are at rest forever, 
Thousands of aching- brains, where theirs no longer are busy. 
Thousands of toiling hands, where theirs have ceased from their 

labors, 
Thousands of weary feet, where theirs have completed their 

journey ! 

Still stands the forest primeval ; but under the shade of its 
branches 
Dwells another race, with other customs and language. 
Only along the shore of the mournful and misty Atlantic 
Linger a few Acadian peasants, whose fathers from exile 
Wandered back to their native land to die in its bosom. 
In the fisherman's cot the wheel and the loom are still busy ; 
Maidens still wear their Norman caps and their kirtles of home- 
spun. 
And by the evening fire repeat Evangeline's story. 
While from its rocky caverns the deep-voiced, neighboring ocean 
Speaks, and in accents disconsolate answ-ers the wail of the 
forest. 




//H j ' ' ■ 



•Th. 





DRAMATIS PERSONS. 



Victorian, ) c. j . r a i i » 

Hypolito C Students of Alcala. 

The Count OF Lara, ) ^ , r^^ ,-, 

Don Carlos, ( ' ' * Gentlemen of Madrid. 

The Archbishop of Toledo. 

A Cardinal. 

Beltran Cruzado, . . . Count of the Gypsies. 

Bartolome Roman, A Young Gypsy. 

The Padre Cura of Guadarrama. 

Pedro Crespo, Alcalde. 

Pancho, Alguacil. 

Francisco, Lara's Servant. 

Chispa, Victorian's Servant. 

Baltasar, Innkeeper. 

Preciosa, , . A Gvpsy Girl. 

Angelina, A Poor Girl. 

Martina, The Padre Cura's Niece. 

Dolores, . . . . . . Preciosa's Maid. 

Gypsies, Musicians, etc. 



ACT I. 

Scene I. — The Count of Lara's chambers. Night. The 
Count, /;/ his dressing-gown, smoking and cotiversing with 
Don Carlos. 

Lara. You were not at the play to-night, Don Carlos ; 
How happened it ? 

Don C. I had engagements elsewhere. 
Pray who was there } 

Lara. Why, all the town and court. 

The house was crowded ; and the busy fans 
Among the gayly dressed and perfumed ladies 
Fluttered like butterflies among the flowers. 
There was the Countess of Medina Celi ; 
The Goblin Lady with her Phantom Lover, 
Her Lindo Don Diego ; Doha Sol, 
And Doha Serafina, and her cousins. 

Don C. What was the play } 

Lara. It was a dull affair ; 

One of those comedies in which you see, 
As Lope says, the history of the world 
Brought down from (ienesis to the Day of Judgment. 
There were three duels fought in the first act, 
Three gentlemen receiving deadly wounds. 
Laying their hands upon their hearts, and saying, 
" O, I am dead ! " a lover in a closet. 
An old hidalgo, and a gay Don Juan, 
A Doha Inez with a black mantilla, 
Followed at twilight by an unknown lover. 
Who looks intently where he knows she is not ! 

Don C. Of course, the Preciosa danced to-night ? 

Lara. And never better. Every footstep fell 
As lightly as a sunbeam on the water, 
I think the girl extremely beautiful. 

Don C. Almost beyond the privilege of woman ! 
I saw her in the Prado yesterday. 
Her step was royal, — queen-like, — and her face 
As beautiful as a saint's in Paradise. 

Lara. May not a saint fall from her Paradise, 
And be no more a saint } 



64 ^be Spanieb Student. 

Don C. Why do you ask ? 

Lara. Because I have heard it said this angel fell, 
And though she is a virgin outwardly, 
Within she is a sinner ; like those panels 
Of doors and altar-pieces the old monks 
Painted in convents, with the Virgin Mary 
On the outside, and on the inside Venus ! 

Do?t C. You do her wrong ; indeed, you do her wrong ! 
She is as virtuous as she is fair. 

Lara. How credulous you are ! Why, look you, friend, 
There's not a virtuous woman in Madrid, 
In this whole city ! And would you persuade me 
That a mere dancing-girl, who shows herself, 
Nightly, half naked, on the stage, for money. 
And with voluptuous motions fires the blood 
Of inconsiderate youth, is to be held 
A model for her virtue ? 

Don C. You forget 

She is a Gypsy girl. 

Lara. And therefore won 

The easier. 

Don C. Nay, not to be won at all ! 
The only virtue that a Gypsy prizes 
Is chastity. That is her only virtue. 
Dearer than life she holds it. I remember 
A Gypsy woman, a vile, shameless bawd, 
Whose craft was to betray the young and fair; 
And yet this woman was above all bribes. 
And when a noble lord, touched by her beauty, 
The wild and wizard beauty of her race. 
Offered her gold to be what she made others, 
She turned upon him, with a look of scorn. 
And smote him in the face ! 

Lara. And does that prove 

That Preciosa is above suspicion ? 

Don C. It proves a nobleman may be repulsed 
When he thinks conquest easy. I believe 
That woman, in her deepest degradation. 
Holds something sacred, something undefiled. 
Some pledge and keepsake of her higher nature, 
And, like the diamond in the dark, retains 
Some quenchless gleam of the celestial light ! 

Lara. Yet Preciosa would have taken the gold. 

Don C. {rising). I do not think so. 

Lara. I am sure of it. 

But why this haste } Stay yet a little longer. 
And fight the battles of your Dulcinea. 



Z\)c Spanlsb Student. 

Don C. 'T is late. I must begone, for if I stay 
You will not be persuaded. 

Lara. Yes ; persuade me. 

Doji C. No one so deaf as he who will not hear ! 



65 








"she is a GYl'SY GIRL." 

La?'a. No one so blind as he who will not see ! 
Don C. And so good-night. I wish you pleasant dreams, 
And greater faith in woman. [Exit. 

Lara. Greater faith ! 



66 Xlbc Spani6b StuDcnt. 

I have the greatest faith ; for I believe 
Victorian is her lover. I believe 
That I shall be to-morrow ; and thereafter 
Another, and another, and another. 
Chasing each other through her zodiac, 
As Taurus chases Aries. 

{Enter Francisco with a casket?) 

Well, Francisco, 

What speed with Preciosa } 

Fran. None, my lord. 

She sends your jewels back, and bids me tell you 
She is not to be purchased by your gold. 

Lara. Then I will try some other way to win her. 
Pray, dost tliou know Victorian } 

Fran. Yes, my lord ; 

I saw him at the jeweller's to-day. 

Lara. What was he doing there } 

Fran. I saw him buy 

A golden ring, that had a ruby in it. 

Lara. Was there another like it ? 

Fran. One so like it 

I could not choose between them. 

Lara. It is well. 

To-morrow morning bring that ring to me. 
Do not forget. Now light me to my bed. 

{^Exeunt. 

Scene II. — A street in Madrid. Enter Cviisv A, followed by 
musicians, with a bagpipe, guitars, and other instriunents. 

Chispa. Abernuncio Satanas ! and a plague on all lovers who 
ramble about at night, drinking the elements, instead of sleeping 
quietly in their beds. Every dead man to his cemetery, say I ; 
and every friar to his monastery. Now, here's my master, Vic- 
torian, yesterday a cowkeeper, and to-day a gentleman ; yester- 
day a student, and to-day a lover ; and I must be up later than 
the nightingale, for as the abbot sings so must the sacristan re- 
spond. God grant he may soon be married, for then shall all 
this serenading cease. Ay, marry ! marry ! marry^ ! Mother, 
what does marry mean? It means to spin, to bear children, 
and to weep, my daughter ! And, of a truth, there is something 
more in matrimony than the wedding-ring. ( To the musicians.) 
And now, gentlemen. Pax vobiscum ! as the ass said to the cab- 
bages. Pray, walk this way ; and don't hang down your heads. 




WHAT SPEED WITH I'KECIOSA?" 



68 Zbc SpaniBb Stubent 

It is no disgrace to have an old father and a ragged shirt. Now, 
look you, you are gentlemen who lead the life of crickets ; you 
enjoy hunger by day and noise by night. Yet, I beseech you, 
for this once be not loud, but pathetic ; for it is a serenade to a 
damsel in bed, and not to the Man in the Moon. Your object 
is not to arouse and terrify, but to soothe and bring lulling 
dreams. Therefore, each shall not play upon his instrument as 
if it were the only one in the universe, but gently, and with a 
certain modesty, according with the others. Pray, how may I 
call thy name, friend ? 

First Mus. Geronimo Gil, at your service. 

Chispa. Every tub smells of the wine that is in it. Pray, 
Geronimo, is not Saturday an unpleasant day with thee ? 

First Mus. Why so ? 

Chispa. Because I have heard it said that Saturday is an un- 
pleasant day with those who have but one shirt. Moreover, I 
have seen thee at the tavern, and if thou canst run as fast as 
thou canst drink, I should like to hunt hares with thee. What 
instrument is that ? 

First Mus. An Aragonese bagpipe. 

Chispa. Pray, art thou related to the bagpiper of Bujalance, 
who asked a maravedi for playing, and ten for leaving off } 

First Mus. No, your honor. 

Chispa. I am glad of it. What other instruments have we } 

Second and Third Musicians. We play the bandurria. 

Chispa. A pleasing instrument. And thou } 

Fourth Mus. The fife. 

Chispa. I like it ; it has a cheerful, soul-stirring sound, that 
soars up to my lady's window like the song of a swallow. And 
you others ? 

Other Mus. We are the singers, please your honor. 

Chispa. You are too many. Do you think we are going to 
sing mass in the cathedral of Cordova ? Four men can make 
but little use of one shoe, and I see not how you can all sing in 
one song. But follow me along the garden wall. That is the 
way my master climbs to the lady's window. It is by the Vicar's 
skirts that the Devil climbs into the belfry. Come, follow me, 
and make no noise. [Exeunt. 



Scene III. — Vkeciosa's chamber. She stands at the open 

window. 

Prec. How slowly through the lilac-scented air 
Descends the tranquil moon ! Like thistle-down 
The vapory clouds float in the peaceful sky ; 
And sweetly from yon hollow vaults of shade 



^bc Spanlsb StuDent. 69 

The nightingales breathe out their souls in song. 
And hark ! what songs of love, what soul-like sounds, 
Answer them from below ! 

SERENADE. 

Stars of the summer night ! 

Far in yon azure deeps, 
Hide, hide your golden light ! 

She sleeps ! 
My lady sleeps ! 

Sleeps ! 

Moon of the summer night ! 

Far down yon western steeps, 
Sink, sink in silver light I 

She sleeps ! 
My lady sleeps ! 

Sleeps ! 

Wind of the summer night ! 

Where yonder woodbine creeps. 
Fold, fold thy pinions light ! 

She sleeps ! 
My lady sleeps ! 

Sleeps ! 

Dreams of the summer night ! 

Tell her, her lover keeps 
Watch ! while in slumbers light 

She sleeps ! 
My lady sleeps ! 

Sleeps ! 

{Enter VICTORIAN by the balco7iy^ 

Vict. Poor little dove ! Thou tremblest like a leaf ! 

Prec. I am so frightened ! 'T is for thee 1 tremble ! 
I hate to have thee climb that wall by night ! 
Did no one see thee ? 

Vict. None, my love, but thou. 

Prec. 'T is very dangerous ; and when thcni art gone 
I chide myself for letting thee con"ie here 
Thus stealthily by night. Where hast thou been ? 
Since yesterday 1 have no news from thee. 

V^ict. Since yesterday 1 have been in Alcala. 
Erelong the time will come, sweet Freciosa, 




.St.RE:NlADF. 





^be Spani6b Student. 7i 

When that dull distance shall no more divide us ; 
And I no more shall scale thy wall by night 
To steal a kiss from thee, as I do now. 

Prec. An honest thief, to steal but what thou givest. 

Vict. And we shall sit together unmolested, 
And words of true love pass from tongue to tongue, 
As singing birds from one bough to another. 

Prec. That were a life indeed to make time envious ! 
I knew that thou wouldst visit me to-night. 
I saw thee at the play. 

Vict. Sweet child of air I 

Never did I behold thee so attired 
And garmented in beauty as to-night I 
What hast thou done to make thee look so fair } 

Prec. Am I not always fair.^ 

Vict. Ay, and so fair 

That I am jealous of all eyes that see thee. 
And wish that they were blind. 

Prec. I heed them not; 

When thou art present, I see none but thee ! 

Vict. There 's nothing fair nor beautiful, but takes 
Something from thee, that makes it beautiful. 

Prec. And yet thou leavest me for those dusty books. 

Vict. Thou comest between me and those books too often ! 
I see thy face in everything I see ! 
The paintings in the chapel wear thy looks, 
The canticles are changed to sarabands, 
And with the learned doctors of the schools 
I see thee dance cachuchas. 

Prec. In good sooth, 

I dance with learned doctors of the schools 
To-morrow morning. 

Vict. And with whom, I pray ? 

Prec. A grave and reverend Cardinal, and his Grace 
The Archbishop of Toledo. 

Vict. What mad jest 

Is this ? 

Prec. It is no jest ; indeed it is not. 

Vict. Prithee, explain thyself. 

Prec. Why, simply thus. 

Thou knovvest the Pope has sent here into Spain 
To put a stop to dances on the stage. 
Vict. I have heard it whispered. 

Prec. Now the Cardinal, 

Who for this purpose comes, would fain behold 
With his own eyes these dances ; and the Archbishop 
Has sent for me 



73 



^be Spanisb Student. 



Vz'ct. That thou mayest dance before them ! 
Now viva la cachucha ! It will breathe 
The fire of youth into these gray old men I 
'T will be thy proudest conquest ! 

Free. Saving one. 

And yet I fear these dances will be stopped, 
And Preciosa be once more a beggar. 




^-1 



r 



BESIDE A FOUNTAIN." 






Vz'cf. The sweetest beggar that e'er asked for alms ; 
With such beseeching eyes, that when I saw thee 
I gave my heart away ! 

Prec. Dost thou remember 

When first we met ? 

Vict. It was at Cordova, 

In the cathedral garden. Thou wast sitting 
Under the orange-trees, beside a fountain. 

Prec, 'T was Easter-Sundav. The full- blossomed trees 



^bc Spani6b StiiDcnt. 73 

Filled all the air with fragrance and with joy. 

The priests were singini^, and the origan sounded, 

And then anon the great cathedral bell. 

It was the elevation of the Host. 

We both of us fell down upon our knees, 

Under the orange boughs, and prayed together. 

I never had been happy till that moment. 

Vict. Thou blessed angel ! 

Prcc. And when thou wast gone 

I felt an aching here. I did not speak 
To any one that day. But from that day 
Bartolome grew hateful unto me. 

[ 'id. Remember him no more. Let not his shadow 
Come between thee and me. Sweet Preciosa ! 
I loved thee even then, though I was silent ! 

Prec. I thought I ne'er should see thy face again. 
Thy farewell had a sound of sorrow in it. 

Vict. That was the first sound in the song of love! 
Scarce more than silence is, and yet a sound. 
Hands of invisible spirits touch the strings 
Of that mysterious instrument, the soul, 
And play the prelude of our fate. We hear 
The voice prophetic, and are not alone. 

Prcc. That is my faith. Dost thou believe these warnings ? 

Vict. So far as this. Our feelings and our thoughts 
Tend ever on, and rest not in the Present. 
As drops of rain fall into some dark well, 
And from below comes a scarce audible sound, 
So fall our thoughts into the dark Hereafter, 
And their mysterious echo reaches us. 

Prcc. I have felt it so, but found no words to say it ! 
I cannot reason ; I can only feel ! 
But thou hast language for all thoughts and feelings. 
Thou art a scholar ; and sometimes I think 
We cannot walk together in this world ! 
The distance that divides us is too great ! 
Henceforth thy pathway lies among the stars ; 
I must not hold thee back. 

I'ict. Thou little skeptic! 

Dost thou still doubt } What 1 most prize in woman 
Is her affections, not her intellect ! 
The intellect is finite ; but the affections 
Are infinite, and cannot be exhausted. 
Compare me with the great men of the earth ; 
What am I ? Why, a pygmy among giants ! 
But if thou lovest, — mark me ! 1 say lovest, 
The greatest of thy sex excels thee not J 



74 XLbc Spanieb StuDcnt. 

The world of the affections is thy world. 
Not that of man's ambition. In that stillness 
Which most becomes a woman, calm and holy, 
Thou sittest by the fireside of the heart, 
Feeding its flame. The element of fire 
Is pure. It cannot change nor hide its nature, 
But burns as brightly in a Gypsy camp 
As in a palace hall. Art thou convinced ? 

Free. Yes, that I love thee, as the good love heaven ; 
But not that I am worthy of that heaven. 
How shall I more deserve it ? 

Vict. Loving more. 

Prec. I cannot love thee more ; my heart is full. 

Vict. Then let it overflow, and I will drink it, 
As in the summer-time the thirsty sands 
Drink the swift waters of a mountain torrent. 
And still do thirst for more. 

A Watchman {in the street^. Ave Maria 
Purissima ! 'T is midnight and serene ! 

Vict. Hear'st thou that cry ? 

Prec. It is a hateful sound, 

To scare thee from me ! 

Vict. As the hunter's horn 

Doth scare the timid stag, or bark of hounds 
The moor-fowl from his mate. 

Prec. Pray, do not go ! 

Vict. I must away to Alcala to-night. 
Think of me when I am away, 

Prec. Fear not ! 

I have no thoughts that do not think of thee. 

Vict, {giving her a ring). And to remind thee of my love, 
take this ; 
A serpent, emblem of Eternity ; 
A ruby, — say, a drop of my heart's blood, 

Prec. It is an ancient saying, that the ruby 
Brings gladness to the wearer, and preserves 
The heart pure, and, if laid beneath the pillow, 
Drives away evil dreams. But then, alas ! 
It was a serpent tempted Eve to sin. 

Vict. What convent of barefooted Carmelites 
Taught thee so much theology } 

Prec. {laying her hand upon his nioutJi). Hush! hush ! 
Good night ! and may all holy angels guard thee ! 

Vict. Good night ! good night ! Thou art my guardian angel ! 
I have no other saint than thou to pray to ! 

{He descends by the balcony.) 



Zbc Spanlsb Student. 75 

Fn^c. Take care, and do not hurt thee. Art thou safe ? 

F/W. {from the garden). Safe as my love for thee ! But 
art thou safe ? 
Others can climb a balcony by moonlight 
As well as I, Pray shut thy window close ; 
I am jealous of the perfumed air of night 
That from this garden climbs to kiss thy lips. 

Prec. {throwing down her handkerchief). Thou silly child ! 
Take this to blind thine eyes. 
It is my benison ! 

Vict. And brings to nie 

Sweet fragrance from thy lips, as the soft wind 
Wafts to the out-bound mariner the breath 
Of the beloved land he leaves behind. 

Prec. Make not thy voyage long. 

Vict. To-morrow night 

Shall see me safe returned. Thou art the star 
To guide me to an anchorage. Good night ! 
My beauteous star ! My star of love, good night ! 

Prec. Good night ! 

Watchman {at a distance). Ave Maria Purissima ! 



Scene IV. — ./;/ inn on the road to Alcald. Baltasar asleep 
on a bench. Enter Chispa. 



Chispa. And here we are, half-way to Alcala, between cocks 
and midnight. Body o' me ! what an inn this is ! the lights 
out, and the landlord asleep. Hola ! ancient Baltasar ! 

Bal. {waking). Here I am. 

Chispa. Yes, there you are, like a one-eyed Alcalde in a town 
without inhabitants. Bring a light, and let me have supper. 

Bal. Where is your master } 

Chispa. Do not trouble yourself about him. We have 
stopped a moment to breathe our horses ; and, if he chooses to 
walk up and down in the open air, looking into the sky as one 
who hears it rain, that does not satisfy my hunger, you know. 
But be quick, for I am in a hurry, and every man stretches his 
legs according to the length of his coverlet. What have we 
here ? 

Bal. {setting a light on the table). Stewed rabbit. 

Chispa. {eating). Conscience of Portalegre ! Stewed kit- 
ten, you mean ! 

Bal. And a pitcher of Pedro Ximenes, with a roasted pear 
in it. 

Chispa {drinking). Ancient Baltasar, amigo ! You know 



76 XLbc Span(6b StuDcnt. 

how to cry wine and sell vinegar. I tell you this is nothing but 
Vino Tinto of La Mancha, with a tang of the swine-skin. 

Ba/. I swear to you by Saint Simon and Judas, it is all as I 
say. 

Chispa. And I swear to you by Saint Peter and Saint Paul, 
that it is no such thing. Moreover, your supper is like the hidal- 
go's dinner, very little meat and a great deal of tablecloth. 

Bal. Ha! ha! ha! 

Chispa. And more noise than nuts. 

BaL Ha ! ha ! ha ! You must have your joke, IVIaster Chispa. 
But shall I not ask Don Victorian in, to take a draught of the 
Pedro Ximenes ? 

Chispa. No ; you might as well say, " Don't-you-want- 
some .'^ " to a dead man. 

Bal. Why does he go so often to Madrid ? 

Chispa. For the same reason that he eats no supper. He is 
in love. Were you ever in love, Baltasar.^ 

Bal. I was never out of it, good Chispa, It has been the tor- 
ment of my life. 

Chispa. What! are you on fire, too, old hay-stack.^ Why, 
we shall never be able to put you out. 

Vict, {withouf). Chispa ! 

Chispa. Go to bed, Pero Grullo, for the cocks are crow- 
ing. 

Vict. Ea ! Chispa ! Chispa ! 

Chispa. Ea ! Sehor. Come with me, ancient Baltasar, and 
bring water for the horses. I will pay for the supper to-mor- 
row. \Excunt. 



Scene V.— Victorian's chambers at Alcald. Hypolito 
asleep in an a7'in-chaiy. He awakes slowly. 

Hyp. I must have been asleep ! ay, sound asleep ! 
And it was all a dream. O sleep, sweet sleep ! 
Whatever form thou takest, thou art fair. 
Holding unto our lips thy goblet filled 
Out of Oblivion's well, a healing draught ! 
The candles have burned low ; it must be late. 
Where can Victorian be ? Like Fray Carrillo, 
The only place in which one cannot find him 
Is his own cell. Here 's his guitar, that seldom 
Feels the caresses of its master's hand. 
Open thy silent lips, sweet instrument ! 
And make dull midnight merry with a song. 

{He plays and sings.) 



78 XLbc Spani0b Student 

Padre Francisco ! 
Padre Francisco ! 
What do you want of Padre Francisco ? 
Here is a pretty young maiden 
Who wants to confess her sins ! 
Open the door and let her come in, 
I will shrive her from every sin. 

{Enter VICTORIAN.) 

Vict. Padre Hypolito ! Padre Hypolito ! 

Hyp. What do you want of Padre Hypolito } 
Vict. Come, shrive me straight ; for, if love be a sin, 
I am the greatest sinner that doth live. 
I will confess the sweetest of all crimes, 
A maiden wooed and won. 

Hyp. The same old tale 

Of the old woman in the chimney-corner, 
Who, while the pot boils, says, " Come here, my child ; 
I '11 tell thee a story of my wedding-day." 

Vict. Nay, listen, for my heart is full ; so full 
That I must speak. 

Hyp. Alas ! that heart of thine 

Is like a scene in the old play ; the curtain 
Rises to solemn music, and lo ! enter 
The eleven thousand virgins of Cologne. 

Vict. Nay, like the Sibyl's volumes, thou shouldst say ; 
Those that remained, after the six were burned, 
Being held more precious than the nine together. 
But listen to my tale. Dost thou remember 
The Gypsy girl we saw at Cordova 
Dance the Romalis in the market-place ? 

Hyp. Thou meanest Preciosa. 
Vict. Ay, the same. 

Thou knowest^hew her image haunted me 
Long after w^e 'returned to Alcala. 
She 's in Madrid. 

Hyp. I know it. 

Vict. And I 'm in love. 

Hyp. And therefore in Madrid when thou shouldst be 
In Alcala. 

Vict. O pardon me, my friend. 
If I so long have kept this secret from thee ; 
But silence is the charm that guards such treasures, 
And, if a word be spoken ere the time. 
They sink again, they were not meant for us. 

Hyp. Alas ! alas ! I see thou art in love. 



Zbc Spauisb Student. 79 

Love keeps the cold out better than a cloak. 

It serves for food and raiment. Give a Spaniard 

His mass, his olla, and his Dona Luisa — 

Thou knowest the proverb. But pray tell me, lover, 

How speeds thy \vooini>- ? Is the maiden coy ? 

Write her a song", beginning with an A7'c' ; 

Sing as the monk sang to the Virgin Mary, 

Ave ! ciijus calcein dare 
Nee eentemiz eommciidare 
Sciret Seraph studio ! 

Viet. Pray, do not jest ! This is no time for it ! 
I am in earnest ! 

Hyp. Seriously enamored } 

What, ho ! The Primus of great Alcala 
Enamored of a Gypsy } Tell me frankly, 
How meanest thou } 

Viet. I mean it honestly. 

Hyp. Surely thou wilt not marry her ! 

Viet. Why not ? 

Hyp. She was betrothed to one Bartolome, 
If I remember rightly, a young Gypsy 
Who danced with her at Cordova. 

Viet. They quarrelled, 

And so the matter ended. 

Hyp. But in truth 

Thou wilt not marry her. 

Viet. In truth I will. 

The angels sang in heaven when she was born ! 
She is a precious jewel I have found 
Among the filth and rubbish of the world. 
I '11 stoop for it ; but when I wear it here. 
Set on my forehead like the morning star, 
The world may wonder, but it will not laugh. 

Hyp. If thou wear'st nothing else upon thy forehead, 
'T will be indeed a wonder. 

Viet. Out upon thee 

With thy unseasonable jests ! Pray tell me. 
Is there no virtue in the world } 

Hyp. • Not much. 

What, think'st thou, is she doing at this moment ; 
Now, while we speak of her ? 

Viet. She lies asleep, 

And from her parted lips her gentle breath 
Comes like the fragrance from the lips of flowers. 
Her tender limbs are still, and, on her breast, 



80 ttbc Spanieb Stu^cnt 

The cross she prayed to, ere she fell asleep, 
Rises and falls with the soft tide of dreams, 
Like a light barge safe moored. 

//j'P. Which means, in prose, 

She 's sleeping with her mouth a little open ! 

V/cL O, would I had the old magician's glass 
To see her as she lies in childlike sleep ! 

I/vp. And wouldst thou venture ? 

Vu'/. Ay, indeed I would ! 

//>'/. Thou art courageous. Hast thou e'er reflected 
How much lies hidden in that one word, ^toiu F 

Vict. Yes ; all the awful mystery of Life ! 
I oft have thought, my dear Hypolito, 
That could we, by some spell of magic, change 
The world and its inhabitants to stone, 
In the same attitudes they now are in, 
What fearful glances downward might we cast 
Into the hollow chasms of human life ! 
W^hat groups should we behold about the death-bed, 
Putting to shame the group of Niobe ! 
What joyful welcomes, and what sad farewells ! 
What stony tears in those congealed eyes ! 
W^hat visible joy or anguish in those cheeks ! 
What bridal pomps, and what funereal shows ! 
What foes, like gladiators, fierce and struggling! 
What lovers with their marble lips together ! 

Hyp. Ay, there it is ! and, if I were in love. 
That is the very point I most should dread. 
This magic glass, these magic spells of thine. 
Might tell a tale were better left untold. 
For instance, they might show us thy fair cousin, 
The Lady Violante, bathed in tears 
Of love and anger, like the maid of Colchis, 
Whom thou, another faithless Argonaut, 
Having won that golden fleece, a woman's love, 
Desertest for this Glauc^. 

Vict. Hold thy peace ! 

She cares not for me. She may wed another. 
Or go into a convent, and, thus dying, 
Marry Achilles in the Elysian Fields. 

Hyp. {rising). And so, good night ! Good morning, I should 
say. 

{Clock strikes three.) 

Hark ! how the loud and ponderous mace of Time 

Knocks at the golden portals of the day ! 

And so, once more, good night ! We '11 speak more largely 



tlbe Spanieb StuC)ent. 81 

Of Preciosa when we meet ai^ain. 

Gel thee to bed, and the magician, Sleep, 

Shall show her to thee, in his magic glass, 

In all her loveliness. Good night ! [£x//. 

Vict. Good night ! 

But not to bed ; for I must read awhile. 

( Throws himself into the arm-chair which Hypolito has left, 
and lays a large book open upon his kftees.) 

Must read, or sit in re very and watch 

The changing color of the waves that break 

Upon the idle sea-shore of the mind ! 

Visions of Fame ! that once did visit me, 

Making night glorious with your smile, where are ye .'' 

O, who shall give me, now that ye are gone. 

Juices of those immortal plants that bloom 

Upon Olympus, making us immortal ? 

Or teach me where that wondrous mandrake grows 

Whose magic root, torn from the earth with groans. 

At midnight hour, can scare the fiends away. 

And make the mind prolific in its fancies ? 

I have the wish, but want the will, to act ! 

Souls of great men departed ! Ye whose words 

Have come to light from the swift river of Time, 

Like Roman swords found in the Tagus' bed. 

Where is the strength to wield the arms ye bore ? 

?>om the barred visor of Antiquity 

Reflected shines the eternal light of Truth, 

As from a mirror ! All the means of action — 

The shapeless masses, the materials — 

Lie everywhere about us. What we need 

Is the celestial fire to change the flint 

Into transparent crystal, bright and clear. 

That fire is genius ! The rude peasant sits 

At evening in his smoky cot, and draws 

With charcoal uncouth figures on the wall. 

The son of genius comes, foot-sore with travel. 

And begs a shelter from the inclement night. 

He takes the charcoal from the peasant's hand, 

And, by the magic of his touch at once 

Transfigured, all its hidden virtues shine. 

And, in the eyes of the astonished clown, 

It gleams a diamond ! Even thus transformed. 

Rude popular traditions and old tales 

Shine as immortal poems, at the touch 

Of some poor, houseless, homeless, wandering bard, 

6 



82 



^be Spanisb Stubcnt 



Who had but a night's lodging for his pains. 

But there are brighter dreams than those of Fame, 

Which are the dreams of Love ! Out of the heart 

Rises the bright ideal of these dreams, 

As from some woodland fount a spirit rises 

And sinks again into its silent deeps, 

Ere the enamored knight can touch her robe ! 

'T is this ideal that the soul of man, 

Like the enamored knight beside the fountain, 

Waits for upon the margin of Life's stream ; 

Waits to behold her rise from the dark waters, 

Clad in a mortal shape ! Alas ! how many 

Must wait in vain ! The stream flows evermore, 

But from its silent deeps no spirit rises ! 

Yet I, born under a propitious star, 

Have found the bright ideal of my dreams. 

Yes ! she is ever with me. I can feel, 

Here, as I sit at midnight and alone. 

Her gentle breathing ! on my breast can feel 

The pressure of her head ! God's benison 

Rest ever on it ! Close those beauteous eyes. 

Sweet Sleep ! and all the flowers that bloom at night 

With balmy lips breathe in her ears my name ! 

{Gradually sinks asleep^ 




XLbc Spanieb StuDent, 83 



ACT II. 

Scene I. — Preciosa's chamber. Morning. Preciosa ajid 

Angelica. 

Prec. Why will you go so soon ? Stay yet awhile. 
The poor too often turn away unheard 
From hearts that shut against them with a sound 
That will be heard in heaven. Pray, tell me more 
Of your adversities. Keep nothing from me. 
What is your landlord's name } 

Ang. The Count of Lara. 

Prec. The Count of Lara ? O, beware that man ! 
Mistrust his pity, — hold no parley with him ! 
And rather die an outcast in the streets 
Than touch his gold. 

Ang. You know him, then ! 

Prec. As much 

As any woman may, and yet be pure. 
As you would keep your name without a blemish. 
Beware of him ! 

A7tg. Alas ! what can I do ? 

I cannot choose my friends. Each word of kindness. 
Come whence it may, is welcome to the poor. 

Prec. Make me your friend. A girl so young and fair 
Should have no friends but those of her own sex. 
What is your name ? 

Ang. Angelica. 

Prec. That name 

Was given you, that you might be an angel 
To her who bore you ! When your infant smile 
Made her home Paradise, you wqre her angel. 
O, be an angel still ! She needs that smile. 
So long as you are innocent, fear nothing. 
No one can harm you ! I am a poor girl. 
Whom chance has taken from the public streets. 
I have no other shield than mine own virtue. 
That is the charm which has protected me ! 
Amid a thousand perils, I have worn it 
Here on my heart ! It is my guardian angel. 

Aji^. {rising^. I thank you for this counsel, dearest lady. 

Prec. Thank me by following it. 



S4 Cbe Spanisb Stu&cnt. 

Ang. Indeed I will. 

Free. Pray, do not go. I have much more to say. 
Ang. My mother is alone. I dare not leave her. 
Free. Some other time, then, when we meet again. 
You must not go away with words alone. 

{Gives her a purse?) 

Take this. Would it were more. 

Ang. I thank you, lady. 

Prec. No thanks. To-morrow come to me again. 
I dance to-night, — perhaps for the last time. 
But what I gain, I promise shall be yours. 
If that can save you from the Count of Lara. 

Ang. O, my dear lady ! how shall I be grateful 
For so much kindness } 

Free. I deserve no thanks. 

Thank Heaven, not me. 

Ang. Both Heaven and you. 

Free. Farewell. 

Remember that you come again to-morrow. 

Ang. I will. And may the Blessed Virgin guard you. 
And all good angels. [Exit, 

Free. May they guard thee too, 

And all the poor ; for they have need of angels. 
Now bring me, dear Dolores, my basquiha. 
My richest maja dress, — my dancing dress. 
And my most precious jewels ! Make me look 
Fairer than night e'er saw me ! I 've a prize 
To win this day, worthy of Preciosa ! 

{Enter Beltran Cruzado.) 

Criiz. Ave Maria ! 

Free. O God ! my evil genius ! 

What seekest thou here to-day ? 

C7'uz. , Thyself, — my child. 

Free. What is thy will with me ? 

Criiz. Gold ! gold ! 

Free. I gave thee yesterday ; I have no more. 

Cms. The gold of the Busne, — give me his gold ! 

Free. I gave the last in charity to-day. 

Cruz. That is a foolish lie. 

Free. It is the truth. 

Cruz. Curses upon thee ! Thou art not my child ! 
Hast thou given gold away, and not to me } 
Not to thy father } To whom, then } 




BELTRAN CRUZADO. 



86 Zbc Spani6b Student 

Free. To one 

Who needs it more. 

Cruz. No one can need it more. 

Free. Thou art not poor. 

Cruz. What, I, who lurk about 

In dismal suburbs and unwholesome lanes ; 
I, who am housed worse than the galley slave ; 
I, who am fed worse than the kennelled hound ; 
I, who am clothed in rags, — Beltran Cruzado, — 
Not poor ! 

Free. Thou hast a stout heart and strong hands. 
Thou canst supply thy wants ; what wouldst thou more ? 

Cri^z. The gold of the Busne ! give me his gold ! 

Free. Beltran Cruzado ! hear me once for all. 
I speak the truth. So long as I had gold, 
I gave it to thee freely, at all times, 
Never denied thee ; never had a wish 
But to fulfil thine own. Now go in peace ! 
Be merciful, be patient, and ere long 
Thou shalt have more. 

Cri^z. And if I have it not, 

Thou shalt no longer dwell here in rich chambers, 
Wear silken dresses, feed on dainty food. 
And liv^e in idleness ; but go with me. 
Dance the Romalis in the public streets. 
And wander wild again o'er field and fell ; 
For here we stay not long. 

Free. What ! march again ? 

Crtiz. Ay, with all speed. I hate the crowded town ! 
I cannot breathe shut up within its gates ! 
Air, — I want air, and sunshine, and blue sky, 
The feeling of the breeze upon my face, 
The feeling of the turf beneath my feet. 
And no walls but the far-off mountain-tops. 
Then I am free and strong, — once more myself, 
Beltran Cruzado, Count of the Cales ! 

Free. God speed thee on thy march ! — 1 cannot go. 

Cruz. Remember who I am, and who thou art ! 
Be silent and obey ! Yet one thing more. 
Bartolome Roman — 

Free, {zvith emotioii). O, I beseech thee ! 
If my obedience and blameless life, 
If my humility and meek submission 
In all things hitherto, can move in thee 
One feeling of compassion ; if thou art 
Indeed my father, and canst trace in me 
One look of her who bore me, or one tone 



Zhc Spanlsb Student. 87 

That doth remind thee of her, let it plead 

In my behalf, who am a feeble girl, 

Too feeble to resist, and do not force me 

To wed that man ! 1 am afraid of him ! 

I do not love him ! On my knees I beg thee 

To use no violence, nor do in haste 

What cannot be undone ! 

Cru^i. 'O child, child, child! 

Thou hast betrayed thy secret, as a bird 
Betrays her nest, by striving to conceal it. 
I will not leave thee here in the great city 
To be a grandee's mistress. Make thee ready 
To go with us ; and until then remember 
A watchful eye is on thee. [Bxi/. 

Prec. Woe is me ! 

I have a strange misgiving in my heart ! 
But that one deed of charity I '11 do, 
Befall what may ; they cannot take that from me. \Exit. 

Scene II. — A 7'oom in the Archbishop's Palace. The 
Archbishop a7id a Cardinal seated. 

Arch. Knowing how near it touched the public morals, 
And that our age is grown corrupt and rotten 
By such excesses, we have sent to Rome, 
Beseeching that his Holiness would aid 
In curing the gross surfeit of the time, 
By seasonable stop put here in Spain 
To bull-fights and lewd dances on the stage. 
All this you know. 

Card. Know and approve. 

Arch. And farther, 

That, by a mandate from his Holiness, 
The first have been suppressed. 

Card. I trust forever. 

It was a cruel sport. 

Arch. A barbarous pastime, 

Disgraceful to the land that calls itself 
Most Catholic and Christian. 

Card. Yet the people 

Murmur at this ; and, if the public dances 
Should be condemned upon too slight occasion, 
Worse ills might follow than the ills we cure. 
As Pancni ei Ct'rcenses was the cry 
Among the Roman populace of old. 
So Party Toros is the cry in Spain. 



88 



^be Spantsb Student. 



Hence I would act advisedly herein ; 

And therefore have induced your Grace to see 

These national dances, e'er we interdict them. 

{Enter a Servant.) 

Serv. The dancing-girl, and with her the musicians 
Your Grace was pleased to order, wait without. 




" ALL THI5 YOU KNOW, 



KNOW AND APPROVE." 



Arch. Bid them come in. Now shall your eyes behold 
In what angelic, yet voluptuous shape 
The Devil came to tempt Saint Anthony. 

{Enter Preciosa, with a mantle thrown over her head, 
advances slowly, in niodest, half-iiniid attitude}) 

Card, {aside). O, what a fair and ministering angel 
Was lost to heaven when this sweet woman fell ! 



Sh^; 



^be Spanieb StuDent. 



89 



Prcc. {kneeling before the ARCHBISHOP). 1 have obeyed the 
order of your Grace. 
If 1 intrude upon your better hours, 
1 proffer this excuse, and here beseech 
Your holy benediction. 

Arch. May God bless thee, 

And lead thee to a better life. Arise. 
Card. {as/(/e). Her acts are mod- 
est, and her words discreet ! 
1 did not look for this ! Come hither, 

child. 
Is thy name Preciosa .'* 

Prec. Thus I am called. 

Card. That is a Gypsy name. 

Who is thy father } 
Prec. Beltran Cruzado, Count of 

the Cales. 
Arch. I have a dim remembrance 
of that man ; 
He was a bold and reckless character, 
A sun-burnt Ishmael ! 

Card. Dost thou remember 

Thy earlier days ? 

Prec. Yes ; by the Darro's side 

My childhood passed. I can remem- 
ber still 
The river, and the mountains capped 

with snow ; 
The villages, where, yet a little child, 
I told the traveller's fortune in the 

street ; 
The smuggler's horse, the brigand and 

the shepherd ; 
The march across the moor ; the halt 

at noon ; 
The red hre of the evening camp, that 

lighted 
The forest where we slept ; and, far- 
ther back, 
As in a dream or in some former life, 
(wardens and palace walls. 

Arch. 'T is the Alhambra, 

Under whose towers the Gypsy camp was pitched. 
But the time wears ; and we would see thee dance 
Prec. Your (irace shall be obeved. 




THE RIVER, AND THE MOUNTAINS 
CAl'I'ED WITH SNOW." 



{Site lays aside Iter mantilla. The music of the cachucha is 
played, and the dance bci^ins. The Archbishop and the 




AND HERE BESEECH YOUK HOLY BENEDICTION. 



Zbc Spanisb Student 



91 



Cardinal /oo/c on with gravity lUid an occasional J roivn ; 
then make signs to each other ; afut, as the dance con- 
tinues, become more and more pleased and excited ; ajid at 
length rise from their seats, throw their caps in the air, 
and applaud veheme7itly as the scene closes.) 




Scene III. — The Prado. .1 long a^'cnue of trees leading to 
the gate of At oc ha. On the right the dome and spires of 
a convent. u4 fountain. Evening, DON Carlos and 
Hypo LI TO meeting. 

Don C. Holii ! good evening, Don Hypolito. 

Hyp. And a good evening to my friend, Don Carlos. 
Some lucky star has led my steps this way. 
I was in search of you. 

Don C. Command me always. 

JTyp. Do you remember, in Ouevedo's Dreams, 
The miser, who, upon the Day of Judgment, 
Asks if his money-bags would rise ? 

/)on C. 1 <!<>; 

But what of thai ? 

//yp. 1 am that wretched man. 



92 ^be Spanisb Student. 

Don C. You mean to tell me yours have risen empty ? 

Hyp. And amen ! said the Cid Campeador. 

Don C. Pray, how much need you ? 

I/yp. Some half-dozen ounces, 

Which, with due interest — 

Don C. {giving his purse). What, am I a Jew 
To put my moneys out at usury ? 
Here is my purse. 

Hyp. Thank you. A pretty purse. 

Made by the hand of some fair Aladrilena ; 
Perhaps a keepsake. 

Do J I C. No, 't is at your service. 

Hyp. Thank you again. Lie there, good Chrysostom, 
And with thy golden mouth remind me often, 
I am the debtor of my friend. 

Don C. But tell me. 

Come you to-day from Alcala .'' 

Hyp. This moment. 

Don C. And pray, how fares the brave Victorian.^ 

Hyp. Indifferent'well ; that is to say, not well. 
A damsel has ensnared him with the glances 
Of her dark, roving eyes, as herdsmen catch 
A steer of Andalusia with a lazo. 
He is in love. 

Don C. And is it faring ill 

To be in love ? 

Hyp. In his case very ill. 

Don C. Why so ? 

Hyp. For many reasons. First and foremost. 
Because he is in love with an ideal ; 
A creature of his own imagination ; 
A child of air ; an echo of his heart ; 
And, like a lily on a river floating. 
She floats upon the river of his thoughts I 

Don C. A common thing with poets. But who is 
This floating lily ? For, in fine, some woman, * 

Some living woman, — not a mere ideal, — 
Must wear the outward semblance of his thought. 
Who is it ? Tell me. 

Hyp. Well, it is a woman I 

But, look you, from the coffer of his heart 
He brings forth precious jewels to adorn her. 
As pious priests adorn some favorite saint 
With gems and gold, until at length she gleams 
One blaze of glory. Without these, you know, 
And the priest's benediction, 't is a doll. 

Don C. Well, well ! who is this doll } 



Zbc Spanisb Student 93 

//y/>. Why, who do you think ? 

Don C. His cousin Violante. 

//j'P. Guess again. 

To ease his laboring heart, in the last storm 
He threw her overboard, wMth all her ingots. 

Don C. I cannot guess ; so tell me who it is. 

//>'/. Not I. 

Don C. Why not ? 

Hyp. {inysterioiisly). Why ? Because Mari Franca 
Was married four leagues out of Salamanca ! 

Don C. Jesting aside, who is it ? 

Hyp. Preciosa. 

Don C. Impossible ! The Count of Lara tells me 
She is not virtuous. 

Hyp. Did I say she was ? 

The Roman Emperor Claudius had a w^ife 
Whose name was Messalina, as I think ; 
Valeria Messalina was her name. 
But hist ! I see him yonder through the trees, 
W^alking as in a dream. 

Don C. He comes this way. 

Hyp. It has been truly said by some wise man, 
That money, grief, and love cannot be hidden. 

{Enter Victorian in front.) 

Vict. Where'er thy step has passed is holy ground ! 
These groves are sacred ! I behold thee walking 
Under these shadowy trees, where we have walked 
At evening, and I feel thy presence now ; 
P>el that the place has taken a charm from thee. 
And is forever hallowed. 

Hyp. Mark him well ! 

See how he strides away with lordly air. 
Like that odd guest of stone, that grim Commander 
Who comes to sup with Juan in the play. 

Do7i C. What ho ! Victorian ! 

Hyp. Wilt thou sup with us } 

Vict. Hold! amigos ! Faith, I did not see you. 
How fares Don Carlos .-* 

Don C. At your service ever 

Vict. How is that young and green-eyed Gaditana 
That you both wot of } 

Don C. Ay, soft, emerald eyes ! 

She has gone back to Cadiz. 

Hyp. Ay dc tni ! 

Vict, You are much to blame for letting her go back. 



94 ^be Spanisb StuOent. 

A pretty girl ; and in her tender eyes 

Just that soft shade of green we sometimes see 

In evening skies. 

Hyp. But, speaking of green eyes, 

Are thine green ? 

Vict. Not a whit. Why so } 

Hyp. ' I think 

The slightest shade of green would be becoming, 
For thou art jealous. 

Vict. No, I am not jealous. 

Hyp. Thou shouldst be. 
Vict. Why } 

Hyp. Because thou art in love. 

And they who are in love are always jealous. 
Therefore thou shouldst be. 

Vict. Marry, is that all } 

Farewell ; I am in haste. Farewell, Don Carlos. 
Thou sayest I should be jealous. 

Hyp. Ay, in truth 

I fear there is reason. Be upon thy guard. 
I hear it whispered that the Count of Lara 
Lays siege to the same citadel. 

Vict. Indeed ! 

Then he will have his labor for his pains. 

Hyp. He does not think so, and Don Carlos tells me 
He boasts of his success. 

Vict. How 's this. Don Carlos ? 

Don C. Some hints of it I heard from his own lips. 
He spoke but lightly of the lady's virtue. 
As a gay man might speak. 

Vict. Death and damnation ! 

I '11 cut his lying tongue out of his mouth. 
And throw it to my dog ! But no, no, no ! 
This cannot be. You jest, indeed you jest. 
Trifle with me no more. For otherwise 
We are no longer friends. And so, farewell ! \Exit. 

Hyp. Now what a coil is here ! The Avenging Child 
Hunting the traitor Ouadros to his death. 
And the great Moor Calaynos, when he rode 
To Paris for the ears of Oliver, 
Were nothing to him ! O hot-headed youth ! 
But come ; we will not follow. Let us join 
The crowd that pours into the Prado. There 
We shall find merrier company ; I see 
The Marialonzos and the Almavi\-as, 
And fifty fans, that beckon me already. {^Exeunt. 



^be Spanisb Stu&ent. 



d5 



Scene IV. — PreCIOSa'S chamber. She is sitting, with a book 
in her ha7id, near a table, on which are flowers. A bird 
sinoimr in its cage. The COUNT OF Lara enters behind 



tmperceii'ed. 
Free, (reads). 



All are sleeping', weary heart ! 
Thou, thou only sleepless art ! 



Heigho ! 1 wish Victorian were 

here. 
I know not what it is makes me 

so restless ! 

( The bird sings.) 

Thou little prisoner with thy 
motley coat, 

That from thy vaulted, wiry dun- 
geon singest, 

Like thee I am a captive, and, 
like thee, 

I have a gentle gaoler. 
Lack-a-day ! 



All are sleeping, weary 

heart ! 
Thou, thou only sleepless . 

art! 
All this throbbing, all this 

aching. 
Evermore shall keep thee 

waking. 
For a heart in sorrow 

breaking 
Thinketh ever of its smart ! 



\ 








'' BIRDS OF PASSAOF." 



Thou speakest truly, poet ! and methinks 
More hearts are breaking in this world of ours 
Than one would say. In distant villages 
And solitudes remote, where winds have wafted 
The barbed seeds of love, or birds of passage 
Scattered them in their flight, do they take root, 
And grow in silence, and in silence perish. 
Who hears the falling of the forest leaf } 
Or who takes note of everv flower that dies ? 



06 XLbc Spaiiisb StuDent. 

Heigho ! I wish Victorian would come. 
Dolores ! 

( Tunis to lay down Jicr book, and perceives the COUNT.) 

Ha! 

Lara. Sefiora, pardon me. 

Prec. How 's this ? Dolores ! 

Lara. Pardon me — 

Prec. Dolores ! 

Lara. Be not alarmed ; I found no one in waiting. 
If I have been too bold — 

Prec. {turning her hack upon him). You are too bold ! 
Retire ! retire, and leave me ! 

Lara. My dear lady, 

First hear me ! I beseech you, let me speak ! 
'T is for your good I come. 

Prec. {turjiing toward him with indignatioti). Begone ! 
begone ! 
You are the Count of Lara, but your deeds 
Would make the statues of your ancestors 
Blush on their tombs ! Is it Castilian honor. 
Is it Castilian pride, to steal in here 
Upon a friendless girl, to do her wrong .^ 

shame ! shame ! shame ! that you, a nobleman. 
Should be so little noble in your thoughts 

As to send jewels here to win my love. 
And think to buy my honor with your gold ! 

1 have no words to tell you how I scorn you ! 
Begone ! The sight of you is hateful to me ! 
Begone, I say ! 

L^ara. Be calm ; I will not harm you. 

Prec. Because you dare not. 

Lara. I dare anything ! 

Therefore beware ! You are deceived in me. 
In this false world, we do not always know 
Who are our friends and who our enemies. 
We all have enemies, and all need friends. 
Even you, fair Preciosa, here at court 
Have foes, who seek to wrong you. 

Prec. If to this 

I owe the honor of the present visit. 
You might have spared the coming. Having spoken. 
Once more I beg you, leave me to myself. 

Lara. I thought it but a friendly part to tell you 
What strange reports are current here in town. 
For mv own self, I do not credit them ; 



(Tbc Spanieb Student. 97 

But there are many who, not knowing you, 
Will lend a readier ear. 

Prcc. There was no need 

That you should take upon yourself the duty 
Of telling me these tales. 

Lara. Malicious tongues 

Are ever busy with your name. 

Prec. Alas ! 

I 've no protectors. I am a poor girl, 
P^xposed to insults and unfeeling jests. 
They wound me, yet I cannot shield myself. 
1 give no cause for these reports. 1 live 
Retired ; am visited by none. 

Lara. By none? 

O, then, indeed, you are much wronged ! 

Free. How mean you } 

Lara. Nay, nay ; I will not wound your gentle soul 
By the report of idle tales. 

Free. Speak out ! 

What are these idle tales } You need not spare me. 

Lara. I will deal frankly with you. Pardon me ; 
This window, as I think, looks toward the street, 
And this into the Prado, does it not.'* 
In yon high house, beyond the garden wall, — 
You see the roof there just above the trees, — 
There lives a friend, who told me yesterday, 
That on a certain night, — be not offended 
If I too plainly speak, — he saw a man 
Climb to your chamber window. You are silent ! 
I would not blame you, being young and fair — 

{Ifc tries to eiiibraee her. She starts fiae/c, a>id (Iraws a dai^- 
ger from Iter /)osof/i.) 

Free. Beware ! beware ! I am a (iypsy girl ! 
Lay not your hand upon me. One step nearer 
And I will strike ! 

Lara. Pray you, put up that dagger. 
F'ear not. 

Fres. I do not fear. I ha\'c a heart 
In whose strength I can trust. 

Lara. Listen to me. 

I come here as your friend, — I am your friend, — 
And by a single word can put a stop 
To all those idle tales, and make your name 
Spotless as lilies are. Here on my knees, 
P^air Preciosa ! on mv knees I swear. 



98 ^be Spanisb Student. 

I love you even to madness, and that love 
Has driven me to break the rules of custom, 
And force myself unasked into your presence. 

(Victorian enters behind^) 

Prcc. Rise, Count of Lara I That is not the place 
For such as you are. It becomes you not 
To kneel before me. I am strangely moved 
To see one of your rank thus low and humbled ; 




V 

^ 






i 



"spotless as lilies." 

For your sake I will put aside all anger. 
All unkind feeling, all dislike, and speak 
In gentleness, as most becomes a woman. 
And as my heart now prompts me. I no more 
Will hate you, for all hate is painful to me. 
But if, without offending modesty 
And that reserve which "is a woman's glory, 
I may speak freely, I will teach my heart 
To love you. 

Lara. O sweet angel ! 

^^^^^. Ay, in truth. 

Far better than you love yourself or me. 

Lara. Give me some sign of this, — the slightest token. 
Let me but kiss vour hand ! 



^be Spanisb Student. 99 

Prec. Nay, come no nearer. 

The words I utter are its sign and token. 
Misunderstand me not ! Be not deceived ! 
The love wherewith I love you is not such 
As you would offer me. For you come here 
To take from me the only thing I have, 
My honor. You are wealthy, you have friends 
And kindred, and a thousand pleasant hopes 
That fill your heart with happiness ; but I 
Am poor, and friendless, having but one treasure, 
And you would take that from me, and for what } 
To flatter your own vanity, and make me 
What you would most despise. O sir, such love, 
That seeks to harm me, cannot be true love. 
Indeed it cannot. But my love for you 
Is of a different kind. It seeks your good. 
It is a holier feeling. It rebukes 
Your earthly passion, your unchaste desires. 
And bids you look into your heart, and see 
How you do wrong that better nature in you. 
And grieve your soul with sin. 

Lara. I swear to you, 

I would not harm you ; I would only love you. 
I would not take your honor, but restore it, 
And in return I ask but some slight mark 
Of your affection. If indeed you love me. 
As you confess you do, O let me thus 
With this embrace — 

Vict, {r-ushing foi'ward). Hold ! hold ! This is too much. 
What means this outrage } 

Laj-a. First, what right have you 

To question thus a nobleman of Spain .'' 

\^ict. I too am noble, and you are no more ! 
Out of my sight ! 

Lara. Are you the master here ? 

Vict. Ay, here and elsewhere, when the wrong of others 
Gives me the right ! 

Prec. (to Lara). Go! I beseech you, go! 

Vict. I shall have business with you, Count, anon ! 

Lara. You cannot come too soon ! [Exit. 

Prec. Victorian ! 

O, we have been betrayed ! 

Vict. ' Ha ! ha ! betrayed ! 

'T is I have been betrayed, not we ! — not we ! 

Prec. Dost thou imagine — 

I'^ct. I imagine nothing ; 



100 Zbc Spanisb Student. 

I see how 't is thou whilest the time away 
When I am gone ! 

Frt'c: O speak not in that tone ! 

It wounds me deeply. 

Vu'L 'T was not meant to flatter. 

Prcr. Too well thou knowest the presence of that man 
Is hateful to me I 

/ 7(f/. Yet I saw thee stand 

And listen to him, when he told his love. 

Free. I did not heed his words. 

/ VtV. Indeed thou didst, 

And answeredst them with love. 

Free. Hadst thou heard all — 

V/cf. I heard enough. 

Prec. Be not so angry with me. 

Vi'c/. I am not angry ; I am very calm. 

Prec. If thou wilt let me speak — 

V/c/. Nay, say no more. 

I know too much already. Thou art false ! 
I do not like these Gypsy marriages ! 
Where is the ring I gave thee ? 

Prec. In my casket. 

Vict. There let it rest ! I would not have thee wear it : 
I thought thee spotless, and thou art polluted ! 

Prec. I call the Heavens to witness^ 

Vict. Nay, nay, nay ! 

Take not the name of Heaven upon thy lips ! 
They are forsworn ! 

Prec. Victorian ! dear Victorian ! 

Vict. I gave up all for thee ; myself, my fame, 
My hopes of fortune, ay, my very soul ! 
And thou hast been my ruin ! Now, go on ! 
Laugh at my folly with thy paramour. 
And, sitting on the Count of Lara's knee. 
Say what a poor, fond fool Victorian was I 

{He casts her from Jiim and rushes out.) 

Prec. And this from thee ! 

(Scene closes.) 

Scene V. — The Count of Lara's rooms. Enter the Count. 

Lara. There 's nothing in this world so sweet as love, 
And next to love the sweetest thing is hate ! 
1 've learned to hate, and therefore am revenged. 



Zbc Spanisb Student. lOl 

A silly girl to play the prude with me ! 
The fire that I have kindled — 

(En/i-r Francisco.) 

Well, Francisco, 
What tidings from Don Juan? 

Frail. Good, my lord ; 

He will be present. 

Lara. And the Duke of Lermos.^ 

Fran. Was not at home. 

Lara. How with the rest } 

Fran. 1 've found 

The men you wanted. They will all be there, 
And at the given signal raise a whirlwind 
Of such discordant noises, that the dance 
Must cease for lack of music. 

Lara. Bravely done. 

Ah ! little dost thou dream, sweet Preciosa, 
What lies in wait for thee. Sleep shall not close 
Thine eyes this night ! Give me my cloak and sword. \Exeunt. 



Scene W. — A retired spot beyond the eity gates. Enter 
Victorian and Hvpolito. 

Vict. O shame ! O shame ! Why do I walk abroad 
By daylight, when the very sunshine mocks me. 
And voices, and familiar sights and sounds 
Cry, " Hide thyself ! " O what a thin partition 
Doth shut out from the curious world the knowledge 
Of evil deeds that have been done in darkness ! 
Disgrace has many tongues. My fears are window^s. 
Through which all eyes seem gazing. Every face 
Expresses some suspicion of my shame. 
And in derision seems to smile at me ! 

Hyp. Did I not caution thee } Did 1 not tell thee 
I was but half persuaded of her virtue ? 

Vict. And yet, Hypolito, we may be wrong. 
We may be over-hasty in condemning I 
The Count of Lara is a cursed villain. 

Hyp. And therefore is she cursed, loving him. 

Vict. She does not love him ! 'T is for gold ! for gold ! 

Hyp. Ay, but remember, in the public streets 
He shows a golden ring the Civpsy gave him, 
A serpent with a ruby in its mouth. 

Viet. She had that ring from me ! God ! she is false ! 



102 ^be Spanisb Student. 

But I will be revenged ! The hour is passed. 
Where stays the coward ? 

Hyp. Nay, he is no coward ; 

A villain, if thou wilt, but not a coward. 
I Ve seen him play with swords ; it is his pastime. 
And therefore be not over-confident. 
He '11 task thy skill anon. Look, here he comes. 

{Enter Lara followed by Francisco.) 

Lara. Good evening, gentlemen. 

Hyp. Good evening. Count. 

Lara. I trust I have not kept you long in waiting. 

Vict. Not long, and yet too long. Are you prepared } 

Lara. I am. 

Hyp. It grieves me much to see this quarrel 

Between you, gentlemen. Is there no way 
Left open to accord this difference. 
But you must make one with your swords } 

Vict. No ! none ! 

I do entreat thee, dear Hypolito, 
Stand not between me and my foe. Too long 
Our tongues have spoken. Let these tongues of steel 
End our debate. L^pon your guard, Sir Count. 

{They fight. VICTORIAN disarms the COUNT.) 

Your life is mine ; and what shall now withhold me 
From sending your vile soul to its account ? 

Lara. Strike ! strike ! 

Vict. You are disarmed. I will not kill you. 

I will not murder you. Take up your sword. 

(Francisco hands the Count his sword, and Hypolito 

interposes.) 

Hyp. Enough ! Let it end here ! The Count of Lara 
Has shown himself a brave man, and Victorian 
A generous one, as ever. Now be friends. 
Put up your swords ; for, to speak frankly to you. 
Your cause of quarrel is too slight a thing 
To move you to extremes. 

Lara. I am content. 

I sought no quarrel. A few hasty words. 
Spoken in the heat of blood, have led to this. 

Vict. Nay, something more than that. 

Lara. 1 understand you. 




^^ \S< 



«2 



YOUR LIFE IS mine: AND WHAT SHALL NOW WITHHOLD ME 
FROM SENDING YOUR VILE SOUL TO ITS ACCOUNT?" 



104 Zbc Spanisb Student. 

Therein I did not mean to cross your patli. 
To me the door stood open, as to others. 
But, had I known the girl belonged to you. 
Never would I have sought to win her from you. 
The truth stands now revealed ; she has been false 
To both of us. 

V/c'/. Ay, false as hell itself ! 

Lara. In truth, I did not seek her; she sought me ; 
And told me how to win her, telling me 
The hours when she was oftenest left alone. 

Vz'cL Say, can you prove this to me ? O, pluck out 
These awful doubts, that goad me into madness ! 

Let me know all ! all ! all ! 

Lara. You shall know all, 




Here is my page, who was the messenger 
Between us. Question him. Was it not so, 
Francisco ? 

Fra7i. Ay, my lord. 

Lara. , If farther proof 

Is needful, I have here a ring she gave me. 

Vict. Pray let me see that ring ! It is the same ! 

{Thrcnvs it upon t/wi^roinut, a nit tramples upon it?) 

Thus may she perish who once wore that ring ! 
Thus do I spurn her from me ; do thus trample 
Her memory in the dust ! O Count of Lara, 
We both have been abused, been much abused ! 
I thank you for your courtesy and frankness. 
Though, like the surgeon's hand, yours gave me pain, 
Vet it has cured my blindness, and 1 thank you. 
I now can see the follv I have done, 



^be Spanisb Student. lOo 

Though 't is, iilas ! too late. So fare you well ! 
To-night I leave this hateful town forever. 
Regard me as your friend. Onee more farewell ! 
Hyp. Farewell, Sir Count. 

[Kxi-init X'lcroRlAN ajid HVPOLITO. 

Lara. Farewell ! farewell ! 
Thus have 1 eleared the field of my worst foe ! 
1 have none else to fear ; the tight is done, 
The citadel is stormed, the victory won ! 

yE.xit luit/i Francisco. 



Scene VII. — A lane in the suburbs. Aig/U. Enter Cruzado 
and BartoloiME. 



Cruz. And so, Bartolome, the expedition failed. Hut where 
wast thou for the most part } 

Bart. In the (kiadarrama mountains, near San Ildefonso. 

Cruz. And thou bringest nothing back with thee } Didst 
thou rob no one ? 

Bart. There was no one to rob, save a party of students 
from Segovia, who looked as if they would rob us ; and a jolly 
little friar, who had nothing in his pockets but a missal and a 
loaf of bread. 

Crtis. Pray, then, what brings thee back to Madrid } 

Bart. First tell me what keeps thee here ? 

Cruz. Preciosa. 

Bart. And she brings me back. Hast thou forgotten thy 
promise ? 

Cruz. The two years are not passed yet. Wait patiently. 
The girl shall be thine. 

Bart. I hear she has a Busne lover. 

Cruz. That is nothing. 

Bart. I do not like it. I hate him, — the son of a Busne har- 
lot. He goes in and out, and speaks with her alone, and I must 
stand aside, and wait his pleasure. 

Cruz. Be patient, I say. Thou shalt have thy revenge. 
When the time comes, thou shalt waylay him. 

Bart. Meanwhile, show me her house. 

Cruz. Come this way. But thou wilt not find her. She 
dances at the play to-night. 

Bart. No matter. Show me the house. 

I I'lxrunt. 



106 ^be Spanisb StiiDcnt. 



Scene VIII.— 77/6' Theatre. The orehestra plays the eaehu- 
eha. Sound of eastanets behind the seenes. The eurtain 
rises, and diseozfers Preciosa in the attitude of commem- 
ing the danee. The eaehueha. Tumult ; hisses; eries of 
" Brava ! " and " Afuera ! " She falters and pauses. The 
music stops. Ge7ieral confusion. PRECR)SAy>?/>//jr. 



Scene IX.— The Count of Lara's chambers. Lara and his 
friends at supper. 

Lara. So, Caballeros, once more many thanks ! 
You have stood by me bravely in this matter. 
Pray fill your glasses. 

Don J. Did you mark, Don Luis, 

How pale she looked, when first the noise began. 
And then stood still, with her large eyes dilated ! 
Her nostrils spread ! her lips apart ! her bosom 
Tumultuous as the sea ! 

Don L. I pitied her. 

Lara. Her pride is humbled ; and this very night 
I mean to visit her. 

Do7i f. Will you serenade her ? 

Lara. No music ! no more music I 

Don L. Why not music ? 

It softens many hearts. 

Lara. Not in the humor 

She now is in. Music would madden her. 

Do7i J. Tr\' golden cymbals. 

Do7i L. Yes, try Don Dinero ; 

A mighty wooer is your Don Dinero. 

Lara. To tell the truth, then, I have bribed her maid. 
But, Caballeros, you dislike this wine. 
A bumper and away ; for the night wears. 
A health to Preciosa. 

( TJiey rise a7id dri7ik.) 

All. Preciosa. 

Lara (holdi7ig up his glass). Thou bright and fiaming min- 
ister of Love ! 
Thou wonderful magician ! who hast stolen 
My secret from me, and mid sighs of passion 
Caught from my lips, with red and fiery tongue, 
Her precious name ! O nevermore henceforth 
Shall mortal lips press thine ; and nevermore 



Zbc Spanigb Student. 107 



A mortal name be whispered in thine ear. 
Go ! keep my secret ! 

{Das/us the goblet down) 

Don J. Ite ! missa est ! 

{Scene closes.) 



Scene X. — Street and garden wall. Night. Enter Cru- 
ZADO ajid Bartolome. 

Cruz. This is the garden wall, and above it, yonder, is her 
house. The window in which thou seest the light is her win- 
dow. But we will not go in now. 

Bart. Why not ? 

Cruz. Because she is not at home. 

Bart. No matter ; we can wait. But how is this ? The 
gate is bolted. {Sound of guitars and voices in a Jieighboring 
street.) Hark ! There comes her lover with his infernal sere- 
nade ! Hark ! 

SONG. 

Good night ! Good night, beloved ! 

I come to watch o'er thee ! 
To be near thee, — to be near thee, 

Alone is peace for me. 

Thine eyes are stars of morning. 

Thy lips are crimson flowers" I 
Goodnight! Good night, beloved. 

While I count the weary hours. 

Cruz. They are not coming this way. 
Bart. Wait, they begin again. 

SONG {coming nearer). 

Ah ! thou moon that shinest 

Argent-clear above ! 
All night long enlighten 

IVIy sweet iady-love ! 

Moon that shinest, 

All night long enlighten ! 

Bart. Woe be to him, if he comes this way ! 
Cruz. Be quiet, they are passing down the' street. 



108 ^be Spanigb Student. 



SONC; {(iyiiig away). 

The nuns in the cloister 

Sang to each other ; 
For so many sisters 

Is there not one brother ! 
Ay, for the partridge, mother ! 

The cat has run away with the partridge ! 
Puss ! puss ! puss ! 

Bart. Follow that ! follow that ! 
Come with me. Puss I puss ! 

{^Exeunt. On the opposite side enter t/ie COUNT UF Lara and 
gentleme?i, with Francisco.) 

Lara. The gate is fast. Over the wall, Francisco, 
And draw the bolt. There, so, and so, and over. 
Now, gentlemen, come in, and help me scale 
Yon balcony. How now ? Her light still burns. 
Move warily. Make fast the gate, Francisco. 

{Exeunt. Re-enter Cruzauo ^?//c/ BartoL(JiME.) 

Bart. They went in at the gate. Hark I I hear them in the 
garden. (Tries the gate.) Bolted again! Vive Cristo ! Fol- 
low me over the wall. 

( They clinib the wall.) 



Scene XI. — Preciosa's bedehamber. Midnight. She is steep- 
ing in an arni-ehair, in an undress. DOLORES watch- 
ing her. 

Dot. She sleeps at last ! 

{Opens the window, and listens.) 

All silent in the street, 
And in the garden. Hark ! 

Free, {in her sleep). I must go hence I 
Give me my cloak ! 

Dot. He comes ! I hear his footsteps. 

Free. Go tell them that I cannot dance to-night ; 
I am too ill ! Look at me ! See the fever 
That burns upon my cheek ! I must go hence. 
I am too weak to dance. 

{Signal from the garden) 




MAKE FAST THE GATE, IKANt ISCO.' ' 



no 



^be Spanisb Student. 



Dol. {from the window). Who's there ? 

Voice {from behw). A friend. 

Dol. I will undo the door. Wait till I come. 

Prec. I must go hence. I pray you do not harm me ! 
Shame ! shame ! to treat a feeble woman thus I 
Be you but kind. I will do all things for you. 
J 'm ready now, — give me my castanets. 
Where is Victorian } Oh, those hateful lamps I 
They glare upon me like an evil eye. 
I cannot stay. Hark ! how they mock at me ! 
They hiss at me like serpents ! Save me ! save me ! 

(S/ie 7i'akes.) 

How late is it, Dolores .'' 

Dol. It is midnight. 

Prec, W^e must be patient. Smooth this pillow for me. 

{She sleeps again. • Noise from the gardeti, and voices^ 

Voice. Muera ! 

Another Voice. O villains ! villains I 
Lara. So I have at vou ! 

Voice. Take that ! 

Lara. O, I am wounded ! 

Dol. {shutting the windoiv). Jesu Maria ! 




XTbc Spanisb Stll^cnt. lU 



ACT III. 

Scene I. — A cross-7-oad ihrout^h a luood. In the background 
a distant 7>illagc spire. ' ViCTOKlAN and Hypolito, as 
travelling students, with guitars, sitting under the trees. 
Hypolito plays and sings. 

SONG. 

Ah, Love ! 
Perjured, false, treacherous Love ! 

Enemy 
Of all that mankind may not rue ! 

Most untrue 
To him who keeps most faith with thee. 

Woe is me ! 
The falcon has the eyes of the dove. 

Ah, Love ! 
Perjured, false, treacherous Love ! 

Vict. Yes. Love is ever busy with his shuttle, 
Is ever weaving into life's dull warp 
Bright, gorgeous flowers and scenes Arcadian ; 
Hanging our gloomy prison-house about 
With tapestries, that make its walls dilate 
In never-ending vistas of delight. 

Hyp. Thinking to walk in those Arcadian pastures, 
Thou hast run thy noble head against the wall. 

SONG (continued). 

Thy deceits 
Give us clearly to comprehend. 

Whither tend 
All thy pleasures, all thy sweets ! 

They are cheats. 
Thorns below and flowers above. 

Ah, Love ! 
Perjured, false, treacherous Love ! 

Vict. A very pretty song. I thank thee for it. 
Hyp. It suits thy case. 




1^ 



If -^ 



\ .?, 



«'€ 



'^^>' 



I.OVE IS KVEK lU-SY WITH HIS SHfTTI.E." 



^be Spanlab Student. 113 

/ 'id. Indeed, 1 think it does. 

What wise man wrote it ? 

Hyp. Lopez Maldonado. 

Vict. In truth, a pretty son^-. 

Hyp. With much truth in it. 

I hope thou wilt profit by it ; and in earnest 
Trv to fory^et this lady of thy love. 

Viit. I will forget her ! All dear recollections 
I^ressed in my heart, like flowers within a book, 
Shall be torn out, and scattered to the winds ! 
I will forget her ! But perhaps hereafter, 
When she shall learn how heartless is the world, 
A voice within her will repeat my name. 
And she will say, " He was indeed my friend I " 
(3, would I were a soldier, not a scholar. 
That the loud march, the deafening beat of drums, 
The shattering blast of the brass-throated trumpet, 
The din of arms, the onslaught and the storm, 
And a swift death, might make me deaf forever 
To the upbraidings of this foolish heart ! 

Hyp. Then let that foolish heart upbraid no more ! 
To conquer love, one need but will to conquer. 

Vict. Yet, good Hypolito, it is in vain 
I throw into Oblivion's sea the sword 
That pierces me ; for, like Excalibar, 
With gemmed and flashing hilt, it will not sink. 
There rises from below a hand that grasps it. 
And waves it in the air ; and wailing voices 
Are heard along the shore. 

Hyp. And yet at last 

Down sank Excalibar to rise no more. 
This is not well. In truth, it vexes me. 
Instead of whistling to the steeds of Time, 
To make them jog on merrily with life's burden, 
Like a dead weight thou hangest on the wheels. 
Thou art too young, too full of lusty health 
To talk of dying. 

Vict. Yet I fain would die ! 

To go through life, unloving and unloved ; 
To feel that thirst and hunger of the soul 
We cannot still ; that longing, that wild impulse. 
And struggle after something we have not 
And cannot have ; the efTort to be strong ; 
And, like the Spartan boy, to smile, and smile. 
While secret wounds do bleed beneath our cloaks ; 
All this the dead feel not, — the dead alone ! 
Would 1 were with them I 

8 



114 Cbc Spanifiib Student. 

Hyp. We shall all be soon. 

Vict. It cannot be too soon ; for I am weary 
Of the bewildering masquerade of Life, 
Where strangers walk as friends, and friends as strangers ; 
Where whispers overheard betray false hearts ; 
And through the mazes of the crowd we chase 
Some form of loveliness, that smiles, and beckons, 
And cheats us with fair words, only to leave us 
A mockery and a jest ; maddened, — confused, — 
Not knowing friend from foe. 

Hyp. Why seek to know } 

Enjoy the merry shrove-tide of thy youth ! 
Take each fair mask for what it gives itself. 
Nor strive to look beneath it. 

Vict. I confess. 

That were the wiser part. But Hope no longer 
Comforts my soul. I am a wretched man. 
Much like a poor and shipwrecked mariner. 
Who, struggling to climb up into the boat, 
Has both his bruised and bleeding hands cut off, 
And sinks again into the weltering sea. 
Helpless and hopeless ! 

Hyp. Yet thou shalt not perish. 

The strength of thine own arm is thy salvation. 
Above thy head, through rifted clouds, there shines 
A glorious star. Be patient. Trust thy star ! 

{Sound of a village bell in the distance?) 

Vict. Ave Maria ! I hear the sacristan 
Ringing the chimes from yonder village belfry ! 
A solemn sound, that echoes far and wide 
Over the red roofs of the cottages. 
And bids the laboring hind a-field, the shepherd. 
Guarding his flock, the lonely muleteer. 
And all the crowd in village streets, stand still. 
And breathe a prayer unto the blessed Virgin ! 

Hyp. Amen ! amen ! Not half a league from hence 
The village lies. 

Vict. This path will lead us to it. 

Over the wheat-fields, where the shadows sail 
Across the running sea, now green, now blue, 
And, like an idle mariner on the main, 
Whistles the quail. Come> let us hasten on. [Exeunt. 



Che Spanieb Student. 



115 



Scene II. — Public square i)i the village of Guadarrama, The 
Ave Maria still tolling. A croiud of villagers, with their 
hats i)i their hands, as if in prayer. In front, a group 
of Gypsies. The bell rings a merrier peal. A Gypsv 
dance. Jinter\\\'scHo,follo7ocdb\ Pedro Crespo. 

Pancho. Make room, ye vagabonds and C'vpsy thieves I 
Make room for the Alcalde and for me I 
Pedro C. Keep silence all I I have 
an edict here 
From our most gracious lord, the 

King of Spain, .'^ 

Jerusalem, and the Canary Islands, 
Which I shall publish in the market- 
place. 
Open your ears and listen ! 

{/inter the Padre Cura at the door 
of his cottage.) 

Padre Cura. ^;, 
Good day ! and, pray yf)u, hear this p 

edict read. 
Padre C. (iood day, and God be -' 

with you ! Pray, what is it .-' 
Pedro C. An act of banishment 
against the Gypsies ! 

(Agitation and murmurs in the 
crowd.) 



' I hereby order 
and Chaldean 



Pancho. Silence ! 

Pedro C. (reads). 
and command. 
That the Egyptian 

strangers. 
Known by the name of Gypsies, shall 

henceforth 

Be banished from the realm, as vagabonds 
And beggars ; and if, after seventy days. 
Any be found within our kingdom's bounds. 
They shall receive a hundred lashes each ; 
The second time, shall have their ears cut off ; 
The third, be slaves for life to him who takes them. 
Or burnt as heretics. Signed, I, the King." 
Vile miscreants and creatures unbaptized I 
You hear the law ! Obey and disappear ! 




" KEEP SILENCE ALL ! 



116 



tibe Spanisb Student. 



PdJic/io. And if in seventy days you are not .^one, 
Dead or alive I make you all my slaves. 

( 77/<? Gypsies i^^o out in confusion, shaioing signs of fear and 
discontent. V \^C¥i(^ follows.) 

Padre C. A riohteous law I A very ri.^hteous law ! 
Pray you, sit down. 

Pedro C. 1 thank V(ju heartilv. 




" HOW CAME THESE GYPSIES INTO Sl'AIN ? " 



{They scat thenisch'cs on a bench at the Padrk Cura's /'/^w. 
Sound of guitars heard at a distance, approaching during 
the dialogue which follows.) 

A very righteous judgment, as you say. 

Now tell me, Padre Cura, — you know all things, — 

How came these Gypsies into Spain } 

Padre C. Why, look you ; 

They came with Hercules from Palestine, 
And hence are thieves and vagrants, vSir Alcalde, 
As the Simoniacs from Simon Magus. 



^be Spanish Student. 117 

And, look you, as Fray Jayme Bleda says, 
There are a hundred marks to prove a Moor 
Is not a Christian, so 't is with the (iypsies. 
They never marry, never j^o to mass. 
Never baptize their children, nor keep Lent, 
Nor see the inside of a church, — nor — nor — 

Pedro C. Good reasons, j^ood, substantial reasons all ! 
No matter for the other ninety-five. 
They should be burnt, I see it plain enoui^h, 
They should be burnt. 

i^Etiter Victorian and Wwovavo playing.) 

Padre C. And pray, whom have we here } 

Pedro C. More va.i^rants ! By Saint Lazarus, more vagrants ! 

Hyp. Good evening, gentlemen ! Is this Guadarrama .^ 

Padre C. Yes, Guadarrama, and good evening to you. 

Hyp. We seek the Padre Cura of the village ; 
And, judging from your dress and reverend mien, 
You must be he. 

Padre C. I am. Pray, what 's your pleasure } 

Hyp. We are poor students, travelling in vacation. 
You know this mark ? 

( Touching the wooden spoon in his hat-band.) 

Padre C. i joyfully). Ay, know it, and have worn it. 

Pedro C. (aside). Soup-eaters ! by the mass ! The worst 
of vagrants ! 
And there's no law against them. Sir, your serA^ant. [Exit. 

Padre C. Your servant, Pedro Crespo. 

Hyp. Padre Cura, 

From the first moment I beheld your face, 
I said within myself, " This is the man I " 
There is a certain something in your looks. 
A certain scholar-like and studious something, — 
You understand, — which cannot be mistaken ; 
Which marks you as a very learned man. 
In fine, as one of us. 

J^ict. (aside). What impudence ! 

Hyp. As we approached, I said to my companion, 
" That is the Padre Cura ; mark my words ! " 
Meaning your (^.race. " The other man," said I, 
" Who sits so awkwardly upon the bench. 
Must be the sacristan," 

Padre C. ;\h ! said you so ? 

Why. that was Pedro Crespo. the alcalde ! 

Hyp. Indeed ! you much astonish me ! His air 



11^ ^be Spaniab Student 

Was not so full of dignity and grace 
As an alcalde's should be. 

Padre C. That is true. 

He is out of humor with some vagrant Gypsies, 
Who have their camp here in the neighborhood. 
There is nothing so undignified as anger. 

Hyp. The Padre Cura will excuse our boldness, 
If, from his well-known hospitality, 
We crave a lodging for the night. 

Padre C. I pray \'ou ! 

You do me honor ! I am but too happy' 
To have such guests beneath my humble roof. 
It is not often that I have occasion 
To speak \\ith scholars ; and EinoUit mores. 
Nee sinit esse feros, Cicero says. 

Hyp. 'T is Ovid, is it not } 

Padre C. No, Cicero. 

Hyp. Your Grace is right. You are the better scholar. 
Now what a dunce was I to think it Ovid ! 
But hang me if it is not ! {Aside.) 

Padre C. Pass this way. 

He was a very^ great man, was Cicero ! 
Pray you, go in, go in ! no ceremony. 

[Exeunf. 

Scene III. — A room in the Padre Cura's house. Enter the 
Padre and Hypolito. 

Padre C. So then, Sehor, you come from Alcala. 
I am glad to hear it. It was there I studied. 

Hyp. And left behind an honored name, no doubt. 
How may I call your Grace } 

Padre C. Gerdnimo 

De Santillana, at your Honor's service. 

Hyp. Descended from the Marquis Santillana } 
From the distinguished poet } 

Padre C. From the Marquis, 

Not from the poet. 

Hyp. Why, they were the same. 

Let me embrace you ! O some lucky star 
Has brought me hither ! Yet once more ! — once more ! 
Your name is ever green in Alcala, 
And our professor, when we are unruly, 
W^ill shake his hoary head, and say, " Alas I 
It was not so in Santillana's time ! " 

Padre C. I did not think my name remembered there. 

Hyp. More than remembered ; it is idolized. 



Zbc Spani6b StuOcnt. no 

Padre ( '. Of what professor speak you ? 

Hyp. Tinioneda. 

Padre C. I don't remember any Timoneda. 

Hvp. A ijrave and sf)mbre man. whose beetlinj^ brow 
O'erhanj^s the rushing current of his speech 
As rocks o'er rivers hanj^. Have you forgotten ? 

Padre C. Indeed, I have. O, those were pleasant days, 
Those college days ! I ne'er shall see the like ! 
I had not buried then so many hopes ! 
I had not buried then so many friends I 
I 've turned my back on what was then before me ; 
And the bright faces of my young companions 
Are wrinkled like my ow-n, or are no more. 
Do you remember Cueva ? 

Hyp. Cueva ? Cuex^a "i 

Padre C. Fool that I am ! He was before your time. 
You 're a mere boy, and I am an old man. 

Hyp. I should not like to try my strength with you. 

Padre C. Well, well. But I forget ; you must be hungry. 
Martina ! ho ! Martina ! 'T is my niece. 

{Enter Martina.) 

Hyp. You may be proud of sudi a niece as tha.t. 
I wish I had a niece. Emollit mores. {Aside.) 
He was a very great man, was Cicero ! 
Your servant, fair Martina. 

Mart. Servant, sir. 

Padre C. This gentleman is hungry. See thou to it. 
Let us have supper. 

Mart. 'T will be ready soon. 

Padre C. And bring a bottle of my Val-de-Pefias 
Out of the cellar. Stay ; I '11 go myself. 
Pray you, Sehor, excuse me. {Exit. 

Hyp. Hist! Martina! 

One word with you. Bless me ! what handsome eyes ! 
To-day there have been Gypsies in the village. 
Is it not so } 

Mart. There have been Gypsies here. 

Hyp. Yes, and they told your fortune. 

Mart, (embarrassed). Told my fortune .^ 

Hyp. Yes, yes ; I know they did. Give me your hand. 
I '11 tell you what they said. They said,— they s'aid. 
The shepherd boy that loved you was a clown, 
And him you should not marry. Was it not } 

Mart, {surprised.) How know you that ? 

Hyp' O, I know more than that. 



130 Zbc Spanieb StuDcnt. 

What a soft, little hand ! And then they said, 
A cavalier from court, handsome, and tall 
And rich, should come one day to marry you. 
And you should be a lady. Was it not ? 
He has arrived, the handsome cavalier. 

(^Tries to kiss Jicr. She 7'inis off. isV/Ztv VlCTORlAN, with a 

tetter.) 

Vict. The muleteer has come. 

Hyp. So soon ? 

Vict. I found him 

Sitting at supper by the tavern door. 
And, from a pitcher that he held aloft 
His whole arm's length, drinking the blood-red wine. 

Hyp. What news from Court ? 

Vict. He brought this letter only. 

{Reads.) 

cursed perfidy ! Why did I let 

That lying tongue deceive me I Preciosa, 
Sweet Preciosa ! how art thou avenged I 

Hyp. What news is this, that makes thy cheek turn pale, 
And thy hand tremble .-* 

Vict. O, most infamous I 

The Count of Lara is a damned villain ! 

Hyp. That is no news, forsooth. 

Vict. He strove in vain 

To steal from me the jewel of my soul, 
The Love of Preciosa. Not succeeding, 
He swore to be revenged ; and set on foot 
A plot to ruin her, which has succeeded. 
She has been hissed and hooted from the stage. 
Her reputation stained by slanderous lies 
Too foul to speak of ; and, once more a beggar, 
She roams a wanderer over God's green earth, 
Housing with Gypsies ! 

Hyp. To renew again 

The Age of Gold, and make the shepherd swains 
Desperate with love, like Gasper Gil's Diana. 
Redit et Virgo I 

Vict. Dear Hypolito, 

How have I wronged that meek, confiding heart ! 

1 will go seek for her ; and with my tears 
Wash out the wrong I've done her ! 

Hyp. O beware ! 

Act not that folly o'er again. 

Vict, ' Ay, folly, 



^be Spanlsb Student. 

Delusion, madness, call it what thou \v>lt, 
I will confess my weakness, — I still love her ! 
Still fondly love her ! 

{E7itcr the Padre Cur a.) 



131 




" O CURSED I'ERFIDY ! WHY DID I LET 
THAT LYING TONGUE DECEIVE ME." 



Hyp, Tell us, Padre Cura, 

Who are these Gypsies in the neii^hborhood ? 
Padre C. Beltran Cruzado and his crew. 
Vzct, Kind Heaven, 



123 Zbc Spanisb Student. 

I thank thee ! She is found ! is found again ! 

//yp. And have they with them a pale, beautiful girl, 
Called Preciosa ? 

Padre C. Ay, a pretty girl. 

The gentleman seems moved. 

Hyp. Yes, moved with hunger, 
He is half famished with this long day's journey. 

Padre C. Then, pray you, come this way. The supper waits. 

{Exeunt. 



Scene IV. — A post-house oji the road to Segovia, not far from 
the village of Guadarraina. E?iter Chispa, cracking a 
whip, and singing the cachucha. 

Chispa. Hallo ! Don Fulano ! Let us have horses, and 
quickly. Alas, poor Chispa ! what a dog's life dost thou lead ! 
I thought, when I left my old master Victorian, the student, to 
serve my new master Don Carlos, the gentleman, that I, too, 
should lead the life of a gentleman ; should go to bed early, and 
get up late. F'or when the abbot plays cards, what can you 
expect of the friars } But, in running away from the thunder, I 
have run into the lightning. Here I am in hot chase after my 
master and his Gypsy girl. And a good beginning of the week 
it is, as he said who was hanged on Monday morning. 

{Kilter Don Carlos.) 

Don C. Are not the horses ready yet ? 

Chispa. I should think not, for the hostler seems to be asleep. 
Ho ! within there ! Horses ! horses ! horses ! {He kjiocks at 
the gate with his whip, a?td enter MOSQUITO, putting on his 
jacket^ 

Mosq. Pray, have a little patience. I'm not a musket. 

Chispa. Health and pistareens ! I'm glad to see you come on 
dancing, padre ! Pray, what's the news ? 

Mosq. You cannot have fresh horses ; because there are none. 

Chispa. Cachiporra ! Throw that bone to another dog. Do I 
look like your aunt ? 

Mosq. No ; she has a beard. 

Chispa. Go to ! go to ! 

Mosq. Are you from Madrid } 

Chispa. Yes ; and going to Estramadura. Get us horses. 

Mosq. What's the news at Court ? 

Chispa. Why, the latest news is, that I am going to set up a 
coach, and I have already bought the whip. 

{Strikes hint round the legs^ 



^bc Spanlsb Student 123 

Mosg: Oh ! oh ! you hurt me ! 

Don 6\ Enough of this folly. Let us have horses. (Owes 
money to Mosquito.) It is almost dark ; and we are in haste. 
iJut tell me, has a band of Gypsies passed this way of late ? 

Mosq. Yes ; and they are still in the neighborhood 

Don C. And where } 

Mosq. Across the fields yonder, in the woods near Guadar- 
rama. ■ , , : 

Don C Now this is lucky. We will visit the Gypsy cam'p ' ' 

Chispa Are you not afraid of the evil eye } Have you a stae's 

horn with you } -■ ^ s ^ 

Don C Fear not. We will pass the night at the village 

Chtspa. And sleep like the Squires of Hernan Daza nine 
under one blanket. 

Don C. I hope we may find the Preciosa among them 

Chispa. Among the Squires } 

Don C. No ; among the Gypsies, blockhead ! 

C/uSpa. I hope we may ; for we are giving ourselves trouble 
enough on her account. Don't you think so.? However there 
is no catching trout without wetting one's trousers. Yonder 
come the horses. i z^, , 

SCE^E\r.— T/ie Gypsy camp zn the fores/. NiVht. Gyhsies 
workzjig at a forge. Others playing cards by the fij- e light. 

Gypsies {at the forge sing). 

On the top of a mountain I stand, 
^Avij ^. ^^^^^ ^ crown of red gold in my hand, 
VV lid Moors come trooping over the lea, 
O how from their fury shall I flee, flee, flee } 
O how from their fury shall I flee } 

First Gypsy {playing). Down ^\•ith your John-Dorados, my 
pigeon. Down with your John-Dorados, and let us make an end. 

Gypsies {at the forge sing). 

Loud sang the Spanish cavalier, 

And thus his ditty ran ; 
God send the Gypsy lassie here, 

And not the Gypsy man. 

First Gypsy (flaying). There vou are in your morocco ' 

fu Ta ^^'^'^'r One more game. The Alcalde's doves against 
the Padre Cura s new moon. 

First Gypsy. Have at you, Chirelin. 



124 Zbc Spanlsb Student. 

Gypsies {at the forge sing). 

At midnight, when the moon began 

To show her silver flame, 
There came to him no Gypsy man, 

The Gypsy lassie came. 

{Enter Beltran Cruzado.) 

Cruz. Come hither, MurcigalJeros and Rastilleros ; leave work, 
leave play ; listen to your orders for the night. {Speaking to the 
right.) You will get you to the village, mark you, by the stone 
cross. 

Gypsies. Ay ! 

Cruz, {to the left). And you, by the pole with the hermit's 
head upon it. 

Gypsies. Ay ! 

Cruz. As soon as you see the planets are out, in with you, and 
be busy with the ten commandments, under the sly, and Saint 
Martin asleep. D'ye hear? 

Gypsies. Ay ! 

Cruz. Keep your lanterns open, and, if you see a goblin or a 
papagayo, take to your trampers.- " Vineyards and Dancing 
John " is the word. Am I comprehended } 

Gypsies. Ay ! ay ! 

Cruz. Away, then ! 

{Exeunt severally. Cruzado walks up the stage, a7id disap- 
pears among the trees. Enter PreciOSA.) 

- Prec. How strangely gleams through the gigantic trees 
The red light of the forge ! Wild, beckoning shadows 
Stalk through the forest, ever and anon 
Rising and bending with the flickering flame. 
Then flitting into darkness ! So within me 
Strange hopes and fears do beckon to each other, 
My brightest hopes giving dark fears a being 
As the light does the shadow. Woe is me ! 
How still it is about me, and how lonely ! 

(Bartolome rushes in.) 

Bart. Ho ! Preciosa ! 

Prec. O Bartolome ! Thou here ? 

Bart. Lo ! I am here. 

Prec. Whence comest thou ^ 

Bart. From the rough ridges of the wild Sierra, 



^be Spanl0b Stu&cnt. 135 

From caverns in the rocks, from hunger, thirst, 
And fever ! Like a wild wolf to the sheepfold 
Come I for thee, my lamb. 

Free. O touch me not ! 

The Count of Lara's blood is on thy hands ! 
The Count of Lara's curse is on thy soul ! 
Do not come near me ! Pray, begone from here ! 
Thou art in danger ! They have set a price 
Upon thy head ! 

Bart. Ay, and I 've wandered long 

Among the mountains ; and for many days 
Have seen no human face, save the rough swineherd's. 
The wind and rain have been my sole companions. 
I shouted to them from the rocks thy name. 
And the loud echo sent it back to me. 
Till I grew mad. I could not stay from thee. 
And I am here ! Betray me, if thou wilt. 

Prec. Betray thee ? I betray thee } 

Bart. Preciosa ! 

I come for thee ! for thee I thus brave death ! 
Fly with me o'er the borders of this realm ! 
Fly wath me ! 

Prcc. Speak of that no more. I cannot. 

I 'm thine no longer. 

Bart. O, recall the time 

When we were children ! how we played together, 
How we grew up together ; how we plighted 
Our hearts unto each other, even in childhood ! 
Fulfil thy promise, for the hour has come. 
I 'm hunted from the kingdom, like a wolf ! 
Fulfil thy promise. 

Prec. 'T was my father's promise, 

Not mine. I never gave my heart to thee. 
Nor promised thee my hand ! 

Bart. False tongue of woman ! 

And heart more false ! 

Prec. Nay, listen unto me. 

I will speak frankly. I have never loved thee ; 
I cannot love thee. This is not my fault, 
It is my destiny. Thou art a man 
Restless and violent. What wouldst thou with me, 
A feeble girl, who have not long to live. 
Whose heart is broken ? Seek another wife, 
Better than I, and fairer; and let not 
Thy rash and headlong moods estrange her from thee. 
Thou art unhappy in this hopeless passion. 
I never sought thy love ; never did aught 




„ j^ ^ ^ *'^ • 4 




" I SHOUTED TO THEM FROM THE ROCKS THY NAME. 



^be Spanisb Student. 127 

To make thee love me. Yet I pity thee, 
And most of all I pity thy wild heart, 
That hurries thee to crimes and deeds of blood. 
Beware, beware of that. 

Bart. Yox thy dear sake 

I will be gentle. Thou shalt teach me patience. 

Pj'cc. Then take this farewell, and depart in peace. 
Thou must not linger here. 

Ba7't. Come, come with me. 

Free. Hark ! I hear footsteps. 

Ba7-t, I entreat thee, come ! 

Prec. Away ! It is in vain. 

Bart. Wilt thou not come ? 

Prec. Never ! 

Bart. Then woe, eternal woe, upon thee ! 

Thou shalt not be another's. Thou shalt die. . [ Exit. 

Prec. All holy angels keep me in this hour ! 
Spirit of her who bore me, look upon me ! 
Mother of God, the glorified, protect me ! 
Christ and the saints, be merciful unto me ! 
Yet why should I fear death } What is it to die } 
To leave all disappointment, care, and sorrow. 
To leave all falsehood, treachery, and unkindness, 
All ignominy, suffering, and despair. 
And be at rest forever ! O dull heart, 
Be of good cheer ! When thou shalt cease to beat, 
Then shalt thou cease to suffer and complain ! 

{Enter Victorian a?id Hypolito de/n'nd.) 

Vict. 'T is she ! Behold, how beautiful she stands 
Under the tent-like trees ! 

Hyp. A woodland nymph ! 

Vict. I pray thee, stand aside. Leave me. 

Hyp. Be wary. 

Do not betray thyself too soon. 

F/r/. {disguising his 7'oicc). Hist ! Gypsy ! 

Prec. {aside, with enwtioii). That voice ! that voice from 
heaven ! O speak again ! 
Who is it calls } 

Vict. A friend. 

Prec. {aside). 'T is he ! 'T is he ! 

I thank thee, Heaven, that thou hast heard my prayer, 
And sent me this protector ! Now be strong. 
Be strong, my heart ! I must dissemble here. 
False friend or true } 

Vict. A true friend to the true ; 



128 Zhc Spanisb Student 

Fear not ; come hither. So ; can you tell fortunes ? 

Free. Not in the dark. Come nearer to the fire. 
Give me your hand. It is not crossed, I see. 

V/eL {putting a pieee of gold into her hand). There is the 
cross. 

Prec. Is 't silver ? 

Vict. No, 't is gold. 

Prec. There's a fair lady at the Court, who loves you, 
And for yourself alone. 

Vict. Fie ! the old story ! 

Tell me a better fortune for my money ; 
Not this old woman's tale ! 

Prec. You are passionate ; 

And this same passionate humor in your blood 
Has marred your fortune. Yes ; I see it now ; 
The line of life is crossed by many marks. 

Shame ! shame ! O you have wronged the maid who loved you ! 
How could you do it } 

Vict. I never loved a maid ; 

For she I loved was then a maid no more. 

Prec. How know you that } 

Vict. A little bird in the air 

Whispered the secret. 

Prec. There, take back your gold ! 

Your hand is cold, like a deceiver's hand ! 
There is no blessing in its charity ! 
Make her your wife, for you have been abused ; 
And you shall mend your fortunes, mending hers. 

Vict, (aside). How like an angel's speaks the tongue of 
woman, 
When pleading in another's cause her own ! 
That is a pretty ring upon your finger. 
Pray give it me. ( Tries to take the ring^ 

Prec. No ; never from my hand 

Shall that be taken ! 

Vict. Why, 't is but a ring, 

I '11 give it back to you ; or, if I keep it, 
Will give you gold to buy you twenty such. 

Prec. Why would you have this ring ? 

Vict. A traveller's fancy, 

A whim, and nothing more. I would fain keep it 
As a memento of the Gypsy camp 
In Guadarrama, and the fortune-teller 
Who sent me back to wed a widowed maid. 
Pray, let me have the ring. 

Prec. No. never ! never ! 

I will not part with it, even when I die ; 



Zbc Spanisb Student 129 

But bid my nurse fold my pale fingers thus, 
That it may not fall from them. 'T is a token 
Of a beloved friend, who is no more. 

V/cf. How ? dead ? 

Free. Yes ; dead to me ; and worse than dead. 
He is estranged ! And yet I keep this ring. 
I will rise with it from my grave hereafter, 
To prove to him that I was never false. 

K/r/. {aside). Be still, my swelling heart ! one moment, still! 
Why, 't is the folly of a love-sick girl. 
Come, give it me, or I will say 't is mine. 
And that you stole it. 

Free. O, you will not dare 

To utter such a fiendish lie ! 

Vict. Not dare ? 

Look in my face, and say if there is aught 
I have not dared, I would not dare for thee ! 

{She rushes into his ar?ns.) 

Free. T is thou ! 't is thou ! Yes ; yes ; my heart's elected ! 
My dearest-dear Victorian ! my soul's heaven ! 
Where hast thou been so long ? Why didst thou leave me ? 

Vict. Ask me not now, my dearest Preciosa. 
Let me forget we ever have been parted ! 

Free. Hadst thou not come — 

Vict. I pray thee, do not chide me ! 

Free. I should have perished here among these Gypsies. 

Vict. Forgive me, sweet ! for what I made thee suffer. 
Think'st thou this heart could feel a moment's joy, 
Thou being absent ? O, believe it not ! 
Indeed, since that sad hour I have not slept. 
For thinking of the wrong I did to thee ! 
Dost thou forgive me ? Say, wilt thou forgive me ? 

Free. I haVe forgiven thee. Ere those words of anger 
Were in the book of Heaven writ down against thee, 
I had forgiven thee. 

Vict. I'm the veriest fool 

That walks the earth, to have believed thee false. 
It was the Count of Lara — 

Free. That bad man 

Has worked me harm enough. Hast thou not heard — 

Vict. I have heard all. And yet speak on, speak on ! 
Let me but hear thy voice, and I am happy ; 
For every tone, like some sweet incantation. 
Calls up the buried past to plead for me. 
9 



130 ^be Spanieb Student. 

Speak, my beloved, speak into my heart, 
Whatever fills and agitates thine own. 

( They walk aside.) 

Hyp. All gentle quarrels in the pastoral poets, 
All passionate love scenes in the best romances, 
All chaste embraces on the public stage. 
All soft adventures, v^hich the liberal stars 
Have winked at, as the natural course of things, 
Have been surpassed here by my friend, the student, 
And this sweet Gypsy lass, fair Preciosa ! 

Free. Sehor Hypolito ! I kiss your hand. 
Pray, shall I tell your fortune } 

Hyp. Not to-night; 

For, should you treat me as you did Victorian, 
And send me back to marry maids forlorn, 
My wedding day would last from now till Christmas. 

Chispa {within). What ho ! the Gypsies, ho ! Beltran 
Cruzado ! 
Halloo ! halloo ! halloo ! halloo ! 

{Enters booted, zvith a whip and lantern^ 

Vict. What now ? 

Why such a fearful din ? Hast thou been robbed ? 

Chispa. Ay, robbed and murdered ; and good evening to you, 
my worthy masters. 

Vict. Speak ; what brings thee here ? 

Chispa {to Preciosa). Good news from Court ; good news ! 
Beltran Cruzado, 
The Count of the Cales, is not your father. 
But your true father has returned to Spain 
Laden with wealth. You are no more a Gypsy. 

Vict. Strange as a Moorish tale ! 

Chispa. And we have all 

Been drinking at the tavern to your health. 
As wells drink in November, when it rains. 

Vict. Where is the gentleman .'' 

Chispa. As the old song says, 

His body is in Segovia, 
His soul is in Madrid. 

Prec. Is this a dream ? O, if it be a dream, 
Let me sleep on, and do not wake me yet ! 
Repeat thy story ! Say I'm not deceived ! 
Say that I do not dream ! I am awake ; 
This is the Gypsy camp ; this is Victorian, 



'^be Spani6b Student* 131 

And this his friend, Hypolito ! Speaic ! speak ! 
Let me not wake and find it all a dream ! 

V/c/. It is a dream, sweet child ! a waking dream, 
A blissful certainty, a vision bright 
Of that rare happiness, which even on earth 
Heaven gives to those it loves. Now art thou rich. 
As thou wast ever beautiful and good ; 
And I am now the beggar. 

Free, {giving hitii her /land). I have still 
A hand to give. 

Chispa {aside). And I have two to take. 
I've heard my grandmother say, that Heaven gives almonds 
To those who have no teeth. That's nuts to crack. 
I've teeth to spare, but where shall I find almonds } 
Viet. What more of this strange story } 
Chispa. Nothing more. 

Your friend, Don Carlos, is now at the village 
Showing to Pedro Crespo, the Alcalde, 
The proofs of what I tell you. The old hag. 
Who stole you in your childhood, has confessed ; 
And probably they'll hang her for the crime, 
To make the celebration more complete. 

Vict. No ; let it be a day of general joy ; 
Fortune comes well to all, that comes not late. 
Now let us join Don Carlos. 

Hyp. So farewell, 

The student's wandering life ! Sweet serenades, 
Sung under ladies' windows in the night. 
And all that makes vacation beautiful ! 
To you, ye cloistered shades of Alcala, 
To you, ye radiant visions of romance. 
Written in books, but here surpassed by truth, 
The Bachelor Hypolito returns. 
And leaves the Gypsy with the Spanish Student. 

Scene VI.— ^ pass in the Guadarrama Mountains. Early 
morning. A muleteer crosses the stage, sitting sideways 
on his mule, and lighting a paper citrar with flint and 
steel. 

SONG. 

If thou art sleeping, maiden. 

Awake and open thy door, 
'T is the break of day, and we must away. 

O'er meadow, and'mount, and moor. 



133 



tTbe Spanfsb Student 



Wait not to find thy slippers, 

But come with thy naked feet ; 
We shall have to pass through the dewy grass, 

And waters wide and fleet. 

{Disappears dmvn the pass. Enter a Mo?tk. A shepherd 
appears on the rocks above^ 



Monk. Ave Maria, gratia plena. 
Shep. Ola ! 



Ola ! good man ! 




"are there robbers in these mountains?" 



Mojik. Is this the road to Segovia ? 

Shep. It is, your reverence. 

Alonk. How far is it ? 

Shep. I do not know. 

Monk. What is that yonder in the valley } 

Shep. San Ildefonso, 

Monk. A long way to breakfast. 

Shep. Ay, marry. 

Monk. Are there robbers in these mountains ? 

Shep. Yes, and worse than that. 

Monk. What } 

Shep. Wolves. 



XLbc Spani6b StuC>cnt 133 

Mo?ik. Santa Maria ! Come with me to San Ildefonso, and 
thou shalt be well rewarded. 

Shep. What wilt thou give me ? 

Monk. An Agnus Dei and my benediction. 

( They disappear. A niotuited Coiitrabandista passes, wrapped 
in his cloak, and a gun at his saddle-bow. He goes down 
the pass singing^ 

SONG. 

Worn with speed is my caballo, 

And I march me hurried, worried ; 

Onward, caballito mio. 

With the white star in thy forehead ! 

Onward, for here comes the Ronda, 

And I hear their rifles crack ! 

Ay, jaleo ! Ay, ay, jaleo ! 

Ay, jaleo ! They cross our track. 

{Song dies away. Enter Preciosa, on horseback, attended by 
Victorian, Hypolito, Don Carlos, and Chispa, on 
foot, ajid arjfied.) 

Vict. This is the highest point. Here let us rest. 
See, Preciosa, see how all about us 
Kneeling, like hooded friars, the misty mountains 
Receive the benediction of the sun ! 
O glorious sight ! 

Free. Most beautiful indeed ! 

Hyp. Most wonderful ! 

Vict. And in the vale below, 

Where yonder steeples flash like lifted halberds, 
San Ildefonso, from its noisy belfries, 
Sends up a salutation to the morn, 
As if an army smote their brazen shields, 
And shouted victory ! 

Prec. And which way lies Segovia } 

Vict. At a great distance yonder. 
Dost thou not see it ? 

Prec. No. I do not see it. 

Vict. The merest flaw that dents the horizon's edge. 
There, yonder ! 

Hyp. 'T is a notable old town. 

Boasting an ancient Roman aqueduct, 
And an Alcazar, builded by the Moors, 
Wherein, you may remember, poor Gil Bias 
Was fed on Pafi del Rey. O, many a time 



134 



^be SpaniBb Student. 



Out of its grated windows have I looked 
Hundreds of feet plumb down to the Eresma, 
That, like a serpent through the valley creeping 
Glides at its foot. 




"this serenade shall be the GVrSV's LAST." 



Prec. O yes ! I see it now, 

Yet rather with my heart, than with mine eyes, 
So faint it is. And all my thoughts sail thither, 
Freighted with prayers and hopes, and forward urged 
Against all stress of accident, as in 
The Eastern Tale, against the wind and tide 



Zbc Spanisb StuDcnt. 135 

Great ships were drawn to the Magnetic Mountains, 

And there were wrecked, and perished in the sea ! (S/ie weeps.) 

Vi'cf. O gentle spirit ! Thou didst bear unmoved 
Blasts of adversity and frosts of fate ! 
But the first ray of sunshine that falls on thee 
Melts thee to tears ! O, let thy weary heart 
Lean upon mine ' and it shall faint no more, 
Nor thirst, nor hunger ; but be comforted 
And filled with my affection. 

Free. Stay no longer ! 

My father waits. Methinks I see him there, 
Now looking from the window, and now watching 
Each sound of wheels or footfall in the street. 
And saying, " Hark ! she comes ! " O father ! father ! 

( T/uy descend the pass. Ch l SP A reuiains behind:) 

Chispa. I have a father, too, but he is a dead one. Alas and 
alack-a-day ! Poor was I born, and poor do I remain. I neither 
win nor lose. Thus I wag through the world, half the time on 
foot, and the other half walking^ and always as merry as a 
thunder-storm in the night. And so we plough along, as the fly 
said to the ox. Who knows what may happen ? Patience, and 
shuffle the cards ! I am not yet so bald that you can see my 
brains ; and perhaps, after all, I shall some day go to Rome, and 
come back Saint Peter. Benedicite ! \E.xit. 

{A pause. Then enter Bartolome wildly, as if in pursuit, 
tvith a carbine in his hand^) 

Bart. They passed this way ! I hear their horses' hoofs ! 
Yonder I see them ! Come, sweet caramillo. 
This serenade shall be the Gypsy's last ! 

{Fires down the pass :) 

Ha ! ha ! Well whistled, my sweet caramillo ! 
Well whistled !— I have missed her !— O my God ! 

{The shot ii> returned. Bartolome/.;?//^.) 







t^s^ 







\ K.. 







TIoTvia, iTOTvta vv^, 

VTTi/oSoTetpa Tool' TToAvTrdi'Wf jBporiov, 

'EpefioOev iOi • fx6\€ fx6\e jcaTciTrTepos 

'Ayafienroviov enl Sofiov ' 

VTTO yap a\y€cav, vno re (TVfi^opas 

Si-OLxofJieO' , olxofxeOa. 

Euripides. 



PRELUDE. 

Pleasant it was, when woods were green, 

And winds were soft and low, 
To lie amid some sylvan scene, 
Where, the long drooping boughs between, 
Shadows dark and sunlight sheen 

Alternate come and go ; 

Or where the denser grove receives 

No sunlight from above. 
But the dark foliage interweaves 
In one unbroken roof of leaves, 
Underneath whose sloping eaves 

The shadows hardly move. 

Beneath some patriarchal tree 

I lay upon the ground ; 
His hoary arms uplifted he, 
And all the broad leaves over me 
Clapped their little hands in glee, 

With one continuous sound ; — 



'7 




138 XDoiccs of tbc migbt. 

A slumberous sound, a sound that brings 

The feelings of a dream, 
As of innumerable wings, 
As, when a bell no longer swings, 
Faint the hollow murmur rings 

O'er meadow, lake, and stream. 

And dreams of that which cannot die, 

Bright visions, came to me, 
As lapped in thought I used to lie. 
And gaze into the summer sky. 
Where the sailing clouds went by. 

Like ships upon the sea ; 

Dreams that the soul of youth engage 

Ere Fancy has been quelled ; 
Old legends of the monkish page, 
Traditions of the saint and sage. 
Tales that have the rime of age, 
And chronicles of Eld. 

And, loving still these quaint old themes, 

Even in the city's throng 
I feel the freshness of the streams, 
That, crossed by shades and sunny gleams, 
Water the green land of dreams, 

The holy land of song. 

Therefore, at Pentecost, which brings 
The Spring, clothed like a bride. 

When nestling buds unfold their wings, 

And bishop's-caps have golden rings, 

Musing upon many things, 
I sought the woodlands wide. 

The green trees whispered low and mild 

It was a sound of joy ! 
They were my playmates when a child. 
And rocked me in their arms so wild ! 
Still they looked at me and smiled, 

As if I were a boy ; 

And ever whispered, mild and low, 
" Come, be a child once more ! " 

And waved their long arms to and fro, 

And beckoned solemnly and slow ; 

O, I could not choose but go 
Into the woodlands hoar, — 



iprcluDe. 139 

Into the blithe and breathing air, 

Into the solemn wood, 
Solemn and silent everywhere ! 
Nature with folded hands seemed there, 
Kneeling at her evening prayer ! 

Like one in prayer I stood. 

Before me rose an avenue 

Of tall and sombrous pines ; 
Abroad their fan-like branches grew, 
And, where the sunshine darted through, 
Spread a vapor soft and blue. 

In long and sloping lines. 

And, falling on my weary brain. 

Like a fast-falling shower. 
The dreams of youth came back again, 
Low lispings of the summer rain, 
Dropping on the ripened grain, 

As once upon the flower. 

Visions of childhood ! Stay, O stay ! 

Ye were so sweet and wild I 
And distant voices seemed to say, 
"It cannot be ! They pass away ! 
Other themes demand thy lay ; 

Thou art no more a child ! 

" The land of Song within thee lies, 

Watered by living springs ; 
The lids of Fancy's sleepless eyes 
Are gates unto that Paradise, 
Holy thoughts, like stars, arise, 

Its clouds are angels' wings. 

" Learn, that henceforth thy song shall be, 

Not mountains capped with snow. 
Nor forests sounding like the sea, 
Nor rivers flowing ceaselessly. 
Where the woodlands bend to see 

The bending heavens below, 

" There is a forest where the din 

Of iron branches sounds ! 
A mighty river roars between. 
And whosoever looks therein 
Sees the heavens all black with sin, 

Sees not its depths, nor bounds. 



140 



IDoices of tbe micibt 



" Athwart the swinging branches cast, 

Soft rays of sunshine pour ; 
Then comes the fearful wintry blast ; 
Our hopes, like withered leaves, fall fast ; 
Pallid lips say, ' It is past ! 

We can return no more ! ' 

" Look, then, into thine heart, and write ! 

Yes, into Life's deep stream ! 
All forms of sorrow and delight. 
All solemn Voices of the Night, 
That can soothe thee, or affright, — 

Be these henceforth thy theme." 




HYMN TO THE NIGHT. 

AcTracrtij, pi\Ai<rTOS. 

I HEARD the trailing garments of the Night 
Sweep through her marble halls ! 

I saw her sable skirts all fringed with light 
From the celestial walls ! 

I felt her presence, by its spell of might, 
Stoop o'er me from above ; 



B Ipsalm of %itc. 141 

The calm, majestic presence of the Night, 
As of the one 1 love. 

I heard the sounds of sorrow and delight, 

The manifold, soft chimes. 
That fill the haunted chambers of the Night, 

Like some old poet's rhymes. 

From the cool cisterns of the midnight air 

My spirit drank repose ; 
The fountain of perpetual peace flows there, — 

From those deep cisterns flows. 

O holy Night ! from thee I learn to bear 

What man has borne before ! 
Thou layest thy finger on the lips of Care, 

And they complain no more. 

Peace ! Peace ! Orestes-like I breathe this prayer ! 

Descend with broad-winged flight, 
The welcome, the thrice-prayed for, the most fair, 

The best-beloved Night ! 



A PSALM OF LIFE. 

WHAT THE HEART OF THE YOUNG MAN SAID TO THE 

PSALMIST. 

Tell me not, in mournful numbers, 
" Life is but an empty dream ! " 

For the soul is dead that slumbers. 
And things are not what they seem. 

Life is real ! Life is earnest ! 

And the grave is not its goal ; 
" Dust thou art, to dust returnest," 

Was not spoken of the soul. 

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, 

Is our destined end or way ; 
But to act, that each to-morrow 

Find us farther thalfto-day. 

Art is long, and Time is fleeting, 

And our hearts, though stout and brave, 

Still, like muffled drums, are beating 
Funeral marches to the grave. 



143 Voices Of tbe mghU 

In the world's broad field of battle, 
In the bivouac of Life, 

Be not like dumb, driven cattle ! 
Be a hero in the strife ! 

Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant ! 

Let the dead Past bury its dead ! 
Act, — act in the living Present ! 

Heart within, and God o'erhead ! 

Lives of great men all remind us 
We can make our lives sublime, 

And, departing, leave behind us 
Footprints on the sands of time ;- 

Footprints, that perhaps another, 
Sailing o'er life's solemn main, 

A forlorn and shipwrecked brother, 
Seeing, shall take heart again. 

Let us, then, be up and doing, 
With a heart for any fate ; 

Still achieving, still pursuing. 
Learn to labor and to wait. 



THE REAPER AND THE FLOWERS. 

There is a Reaper, whose name is Death, 

And, with his sickle keen, 
He reaps the bearded grain at a breath, 

And the flowers that grow between. 

" Shall I have naught that is fair ? " saith he ; 

" Have naught but the bearded grain ? 
Though the breath of these flowers is sweet to me, 

I will give them all back again." 

He gazed at the flowers with tearful eyes, 

He kissed their drooping leaves ; 
It was for the Lord of Paradise 

He bound them in his sheaves. 

" My Lord has need of these flowerets gay," 

The Reaper said, and smiled ; 
" Dear tokens of the earth are they, 

Where he was once a child. 



^be Xiobt ot Stara, 143 

" They shall all bloom in fields of light, 

Transplanted by my care, 
And saints, upon their garments white. 

These sacred blossoms wear." 

And the mother gave, in tears and pain. 

The flowers she most did love ; 
She knew she should find them all again 

In the fields of light above. 

O, not in cruelty, not in wrath, 

The Reaper came that day ; 
'T was an angel visited the green earth. 

And took the flowers away. 



THE LIGHT OF STARS. 

The night is come, but not too soon ; 

And sinking silently, 
All silently, the little moon 

Drops down behind the sky. 

There is no light in earth or heaven 

But the cold light of stars ; 
And the first watch of night is given 

To the red planet Mars. 

Is it the tender star of love ? 

The star of love and dreams ? 
O no ! from that blue tent above, 

A hero's armor gleams. 

And earnest thoughts within me rise. 

When I behold afar. 
Suspended in the evening skies. 

The shield of that red star. 

star of strength ! I see thee stand 
And smile upon my pain ; 

Thou beckonest with thy mailed hand, 
And I am strong again. 

Within my breast there is no light 
But the' cold light of stars ; 

1 give the first watch of the night 
"To the red planet Mars. 



144 IDoices ot tbc WQhU 

The star of the unconquered will, 
He rises in my breast, 

Serene, and resolute, and still, 
And calm, and self-possessed. 

And thou, too, whosoe'er thou art. 
That readest this brief psalm. 

As one by one thy hopes depart. 
Be resolute and calm. 

O fear not in a world like this. 
And thou shalt know ere long, 

Know how^ sublime a thing it is 
To suffer and be strong. 



FOOTSTEPS OF ANGELS. 

When the hours of Day are numbered, 

And the voices of the Night 
Wake the better soul, that slumbered. 

To a holy, calm delight ; 

Ere the evening lamps are lighted. 
And, like phantoms grim and tall. 

Shadows from the fitful firelight 
Dance upon the parlor wall ; 

Then the forms of the departed 

Enter at the open door; 
The beloved, the true-hearted. 

Come to visit me once more ; 

He, the young and strong, who cherished 
Noble longings for the strife. 

By the roadside fell and perished, 
Weary with the march of life I 

They, the holy ones and weakly, 
Who the cross of suffering bore. 

Folded their pale hands so meekly. 
Spake with us on earth no more ! 

And with them the Being Beauteous, 
Who unto my youth was given. 

More than all things else to love me, 
And is now a saint in heaven. 




THE BELOVED, THE TRUE-HEARTED, 
COME TO VISIT ME ONCE MORE." 



10 



146 \Doicc6 ot tbe IRigbt. 

With a slow and noiseless footstep 
Comes that messenger divine, 

Takes the vacant chair beside me, 
Lays her gentle hand in mine. 

And she sits and gazes at me 
With those deep and tender eyes. 

Like the stars, so still and saint-like. 
Looking downward from the skies. 

Uttered not, yet comprehended, 
Is the spirit's voiceless prayer. 

Soft rebukes, in blessings ended. 
Breathing from her lips of air. 

O, though oft depressed and lonely, 
All my fears are laid aside. 

If I but remember only 

Such as these have lived and died ! 



FLOWERS. 

Spake full well, in language quaint and olden, 
One who dwelleth by the castled Rhine, 

When he called the flowers, so blue and golden, 
Stars, that in earth's firmament do shine. 

Stars they are, wherein we read our history. 

As astrologers and seers of eld ; 
Yet not wrapped about with awful mystery, 

Like the burning stars, which they beheld. 

Wondrous truths, and manifold as wondrous, 
God hath written in those stars above ; 

But not less in the bright flowerets under us 
Stands the revelation of his love. 

Bright and glorious is that revelation, 
Written all over this great world of ours ; 

Making evident our own creation. 

In these stars of earth, these golden flowers. 

And the Poet, faithful and far-seeing. 
Sees, alike in stars and flowers, a part 

Of the self-same, universal being. 

Which is throbbing in his brain and heart. 



aflovvers. 147 

Gorgeous flowerets in the sunlight shining, 

Blossoms flaunting in the eye of day, 
Tremulous leaves, with soft and silver lining, 

Buds that open only to decay ; 

Brilliant hopes, all woven in gorgeous tissues, 

Haunting gayly in the golden light ; 
Large desires, with most uncertain issues. 

Tender wishes, blossoming at night ! 

These in flowers and men are more than seeming ; 

Workings are they of the self-same powers. 
Which the Poet, in no idle dreaming, 

Seeth in himself and in the flowers. 

Everywhere about us are they glowing. 
Some like stars, to tell us Spring is born ; 

Others, their blue eyes with tears o'er-flowing, 
Stand like Ruth amid the golden corn ; 

Not alone in Spring's armorial bearing, 
And in Summer's green-emblazoned field. 

But in arms of brave old Autumn's wearing, 
In the centre of his brazen shield ; 

Not alone in meadows and green alleys. 

On the mountain-top, and by the brink 
Of sequestered pools in woodland valleys. 

Where the slaves of nature stoop to drink ; 

Not alone in her vast dome of glory, 

Not on graves of bird and beast alone, 
But in old cathedrals, high and hoary, 

On the tombs of heroes, carved in stone ; 

In the cottage of the rudest peasant, 

In ancestral homes, whose crumbling towers, 

Speaking of the Past unto the Present, 
Tell us of the ancient Games of Flowers ; 

In all places, then, and in all seasons. 

Flowers expand their light and soul-like wings, 

Teaching us, by most persuasive reasons. 
How akin they are to human things. 

And with childlike, credulous affection 

We behold their tender buds expand ; 
Emblems of our own great resurrection. 

Emblems of the bright and better land. 



148 



Voices of tbc miGbt. 




f3S?3!l!*aJ$«*''' 




A MIDNIGHT HOST OF SPECTRES PALE, 



THE BELEAGUERED CITY. 

I HAVE read, in some old, marvellous tale, 
Some legend strange and vague. 

That a midnight host of spectres pale 
Beleaguered the walls of Prague. 

Beside the Moldau's rushing stream, 
With the wan moon overhead. 



^be JBcleaauereD Git^. 149 

There stood, as in an awful dream, 
The army of the dead. 

White as a sea-fog, landward bound, 

The spectral camp was seen. 
And, with a sorrowful, deep sound, 

The river flowed between. 

No other voice nor sound was there. 

No drum, nor sentry's pace ; 
The mist-like banners clasped the air, 

As clouds with clouds embrace. 

But when the old cathedral bell 

Proclaimed the morning prayer. 
The white pavilions rose and fell 

On the alarmed air. 

Down the broad valley fast and far 

The troubled army fled ; 
Up rose the glorious morning star, 

The ghastly host was dead. 

I have read, in the marvellous heart of man. 

That strange and mystic scroll. 
That an army of phantoms vast and wan 

Beleaguer the human soul. 

Encamped beside Life's rushing stream. 

In Fancy's misty light, 
Gigantic shapes and shadows gleam 

Portentous through the night. 

Upon its midnight battle-ground 

The spectral camp is seen, 
And, with a sorrowful, deep sound, 

Flows the River of Life between. 

No other voice nor sound is there. 

In the army of the grave ; 
No other challenge breaks the air. 

But the rushing of Life's wave. 

And when the solemn and deep church-bell 

Entreats the soul to pray, 
The midnight phantoms feel the spell. 

The shadows sweep away. 



150 lDoice0 of tbe nmt 

Down the broad Vale of Tears afar 
The spectral camp is fled ; 

Faith shineth as a morning star, 
Our ghastly fears are dead. 



MIDNIGHT MASS FOR THE DYING YEAR. 

Yes, the Year is growing old, 
And his eye is pale and bleared ! 

Death, with frosty hand and cold, 
Plucks the old man by the beard, 
Sorely, sorely ! 

The leaves are falling, falling, 

Solemnly and slow ; 
Caw ! caw ! the rooks are calling, 

It is a sound of woe, 
A sound of woe ! 

Through woods and mountain passes 
The winds, like anthems, roll ; 

They are chanting solemn masses, 
Singing, " Pray for this poor soul. 
Pray, pray ! " 

And the hooded clouds, like friars, 
Tell their beads in drops of rain, 

And patter their doleful prayers ; 
But their prayers are all in vain, 
All in vain ! 

There he stands in the foul weather. 

The foolish, fond Old Year, 
Crowned with wild flowers and with heather, 

Like weak, despised Lear, 
A king, a king ! 

Then comes the summer-like day, 

Bids the old man rejoice ! 
His joy ! his last ! O, the old man gray 

Loveth that ever-soft voice, 
Gentle and low. 

To the crimson woods he saith, 

To the voice gentle and low 
Of the soft air, like a daughter's breath, 

" Pray do not mock me so ! 
Do not laugh at me ! " 



/IftiOnic^bt /lRa66 tov tbe W^im l!?car. 



151 



And now the sweet day is dead ; 

Cold in his arms it lies ; 
No stain from its breath is spread 

Over the glassy skies, 
No mist or stain ! 

Then, too, the Old Year dieth. 
And the forests utter a moan, 




" ' TRAY DO NOT MOCK ME SO ! ' " 

Like the voice of one who crieth 
In the wilderness alone, 
" Vex not his ghost ! " 

Then comes, with an awful roar. 
Gathering and sounding on. 

The storm-wind from Labrador, 
The wind Euroclydon, 
The storm-wind ! 



152 Baiiier ipocms. 

Howl ! howl ! and from the forest 
Sweep the red leaves away ! 

Would, the sins that thou abhorrest, 
O Soul ! could thus decay, 
And be swept away ! 

For there shall come a mightier blast, 

There shall be a darker day ; 
And the stars, from heaven down-cast 
Like red leaves be swept away ! 
Kyrie, eleyson ! 
Christe, eleyson ! 



EARLIER POEMS. 



[These poems were written for the most part during my college life, 
and all of them before the age of nineteen. Some have found their way 
into schools, and seem to be successful. Others lead a vagabond and 
precarious existence in the corners of newspapers ; or have changed 
their names and run away to seek their fortunes beyond the sea. I say, 
with the Bishop of Avranches on a similar occasion : "I cannot be dis- 
pleased to see these children of mine, which I hav? neglected, and al- 
most exposed, brought from their wanderings in lanes and alleys, and 
safely lodged, in order to go forth into the world together in a more dec- 
orous garb."] 

AN APRIL DAY. 

When the warm sun, that brings 
Seed-time and harvest, has returned again, 
'Tis sweet to visit the still wood, where springs 

The first flower of the plain. 

I love the season well, 
When forest glades are teeming with bright forms, 
Nor dark and many-folded clouds foretell 

The coming-on of storms. 

From the earth's loosened mould 
The sapling draws its sustenance, and thrives ; 
Though stricken to the heart with winter's cold, 

The drooping tree revives. 



Butumit, 153 

The softly-warbled son,i( 
Conies from the pleasant woods, and colored wings 
Glance quick in the bright sun, that moves along 

The forest openings. 

When the bright sunset fills 
The silver woods with light, the green slope throws 
Its shadows in the hollows of the hills, 

And wide the upland glows. 

And when the eve is born, 
In the blue lake the sky, o'er-reaching far. 
Is hollowed out, and the moon dips her horn, 

And twinkles many a star. 

Inverted in the tide 
Stand the gray rocks, and trembling shadows throw. 
And the fair trees look over, side by side, 

And see themselves below. 

Sweet April ! many a thought 
Is wedded unto thee, as hearts are wed ; 
Nor shall they fail, till, to its autumn brought, 

Life's golden fruit is shed. 



AUTUMN. 

With what a glory comes and goes the year ! 
The buds of spring, those beautiful harbingers 
Of sunny skies and cloudless times, enjoy " 
Life's newness, and earth's garniture spread out ; 
And when the silver habit o( the clouds 
Comes down upon the autumn sun, and with 
A sober gladness the old year takes up 
His bright inheritance of golden fruits, 
A pomp and pageant fill the splendid scene. 

There is a beautiful spirit breathing now 
Its mellow richness on the clustered trees. 
And, from a beaker full of richest dyes. 
Pouring new glory on the autumn woods. 
And dipping in warm light the pillared clouds. 
Morn on the mountain, like a summer bird. 
Lifts up her purple wing, and in the vales 
The gentle wind, a sweet and passionate wooer, 
Kisses the blushing leaf, and stirs up life 



154 Bavliev ipocme. 

Within the solemn woods of ash dcep-crinisoned, 
And silver beech, and maple yellow-leaved. 
Where Autumn, like a faint old man, sits down 
By the wayside a-weary. Through the trees 
The golden robin moves. The purple finch, 
That on wild cherry and red cedar feeds, 
A winter bird, comes with its plaintive whistle, 
And pecks by the witch-hazel, whilst aloud 
From cottage roofs the warbling blue bird sings, 
And merrily, with oft-repeated stroke, 
Sounds from the threshing-floor the busv flail. 



O what a glory doth this world put on 
For him who, with a fervent heart, goes forth 
Under the bright and glorious sky, and looks 
On duties well performed, and days well spent! 
For him the wind, ay, and the yellow leaves, 
Shall have a voice, and give him eloquent teachings. 
He shall so hear the solemn hymn that Death 
Has lifted up for all, that he shall go 
To his long resting-place without a tear. 



W^OODS IN WINTER. 

When winter wMnds are piercing chill, 

And through the hawthorn blows the gale, 

With solemn" feet I tread the hill, 
That overbrows the lonely vale. 

O'er the bare upland, and away 
- Through the long reach of desert woods, 
The embracing sunbeams chastely play. 
And gladden these deep solitudes. 

Where, twisted round the barren oak. 
The summer vine in beauty clung. 

And summer winds the stillness broke. 
The crystal icicle is hung. 

Where, from their frozen urns, mute springs 
Pour out the river's gradual tide. 

Shrilly the skater's iron rings. 

And voices fill the woodland side. 




^^ 



X 1. 



Sf 






WITH SOLEMN FEET I TREAD THE HILL. 



156 jEarlicv poems. 

Alas ! how changed from the fair scene, 
When birds sang out their mellow lay, 

And winds were soft, and woods were green, 
And the song ceased not with the day ! 

But still wild music is abroad, 

Pale, desert woods ! within your crowd ; 

And gathering winds, in hoarse accord, 
Amid the vocal reeds pipe loud. 

Chill airs and wintry winds ! my ear 
Has grown familiar with your song ; 

I hear it in the opening year, 
I listen, and it cheers me long. 



HYMN OF THE MORAVIAN NUNS OF BETHLEHEM, 

AT THE CONSECRATION OF PULASKl'S BANNER. 

When the dying flame of day 
Through the chancel shot its ray, 
Far the glimmering tapers shed 
'Faint light on the cowled head ; 
And the censer burning swung. 
Where, before the altar, hung 
The blood red banner, that with prayer 
Had been consecrated there. 
And the nuns' sweet hymn was heard the while, 
Sung low, in the dim, mysterious aisle. 

" Take thy banner ! May it wave 
Proudly o'er the good and brave ; 
When the batde's distant wail 
Breaks the sabbath of our vale. 
When the clarion's music thrills 
To the hearts of these lone hills. 
When the spear in conflict shakes. 
And the strong lance shivering breaks. 

" Take thy banner ! and, beneath 
The battle-cloud's encircling wreath. 
Guard it, till our homes are free ! 
Guard it ! God will prosper thee ! 
In the dark and trying hour. 
In the breaking forth of power. 
In the rush of steeds and men. 
His right hand will shield thee then. 



Sunrfec on tbc 1bill0. 157 

** Take thy banner ! liut when night 
Closes round the ghastly fight, 
If the vanquished warrior bow, 
Spare him ! By our holy vow, 
By our prayers and many tears, 
By the mercy that endears. 
Spare him ! he our love hath shared ! 
Spare him ! as thou wouldst be spared ! 

" Take thy banner ! and if e'er 

Thou shouldst press the soldier's bier. 
And the muffled drum should beat 
To the tread of mournful feet. 
Then this crimson flag shall be 
Martial cloak and shroud for thee." 

The warrior took that banner proud. 
And it was his martial cloak and shroud ! 



SUNRISE ON THE HILLS. 

I STOOD upon the hills, when heaven's wide arch 

Was glorious with the sun's returning march, 

And woods were brightened, and soft gales 

Went forth to kiss the sun-clad vales. 

The clouds were far beneath me ; bathed in light, 

They gathered mid-way round the wooded height, 

And, in their fading glory, shone 

Like hosts in battle overthrown. 

As many a pinnacle, with shifting glance. 

Through the gray mist thrust up its shattered lance. 

And rocking on the cliff was left 

The dark pine blasted, bare, and cleft. 

The veil of cloud was lifted, and below 

Glowed the rich valley, and the river's flow 

Was darkened by the forest's shade. 

Or glistened in the white cascade ; 

Where upward, in the mellow blush of day, 

The noisy bittern wheeled his spiral way. 

I heard the distant waters dash, 
I saw the current whirl and flash. 
And richly, by the blue lake's silver beach. 
The woods were bending with a silent reach. 
Then o'er the vale, with gentle swell, 



158 )Eailicv ip»ocm6. 

The music of the village bell 

Came sweetly to the echo-giving hills ; 

And the wild horn, whose voice the woodland fills, 

Was ringing to the merry shout, 

That faint and far the glen sent out, 

Where, answering to the sudden shot, thin smoke, 

Through thick-leaved branches, from the dingle broke. 

If thou art worn and hard beset 
With sorrows, that thou wouldst forget. 
If thou wouldst read a lesson, that will keep 
Thy heart from fainting and thy soul from sleep, 
Go to the woods and hills ! No tears 
Dim the sweet look that Nature wears. 



THE SPIRIT OF POETRY. 

There is a quiet spirit in these woods. 

That dwells w'here'er the gentle south wind blows ; 

Where, underneath the white-thorn, in the glade. 

The wild flowers bloom, or, kissing the soft air. 

The leaves above their sunny palms outspread. 

With what a tender and impassioned voice 

It fills the nice and delicate ear of thought. 

When the fast-ushering star of morning comes. 

O'er-riding the gray hills with golden scarf ; 

Or when the cowled and dusky-sandaled Eve, 

In mourning weeds, from out the western gate, 

Departs with silent pace ! That spirit moves 

In the green valley, where the silver brook. 

From its full laver, pours the white cascade ; 

And, babbling low amid the tangled woods. 

Slips down through moss-grown stones with endless laughter. 

And frequent, on the everlasting hills. 

Its feet go forth, w^hen it doth wrap itself 

In all the dark embroidery of the storm. 

And shouts the stern, strong wind. And here, amid 

The silent majesty of these deep woods. 

Its presence shall uplift thy thoughts from earth. 

As to the sunshine and the pure, bright air 

Their tops the green trees lift. Hence gifted bards 

Have ever loved the calm and quiet shades. 

For them there was an eloquent voice in all 

The sylvan pomp of woods, the golden sun. 

The flowers, the leaves, the river on its way. 

Blue skies, and silver clouds, and gentle winds, 



JBuvial ot tbc /Ilbinniginh, 159 

The swelling upland, where the sidelong sun 

Aslant the wooded slope, at evening, goes, 

Groves, through whose broken roof the sky looks in, 

Mountain, and shattered cliff, and sunny vale, 

The distant lake, fountains, and mighty trees, 

In many a lazy syllable, repeating 

Their old poetic legends to the wind. 

And this is the sweet spirit, that doth fill 
The world ; and, in these wayward days of youth, 
My busy fancy oft embodies it. 
As a bright image of the light and beauty 
That dwell in nature ; of the heavenly forms 
We worship in our dreams, and the soft hues 
That stain the wild bird's wing and flush the clouds 
When the sun sets. Within her eye 
The heaven of April, with its changing light. 
And when it wears the blue of May, is hung. 
And on her lip the rich, red rose. Her hair 
Is like the summer tresses of the trees, 
When twilight makes them brown, and on her cheek 
Blushes the richness of an autumn sky, 
With ever-shifting beauty. Then her breath. 
It is so like the gentle air of Spring, 
As, from the morning's dewy flowers, it comes 
Full of their fragrance, that it is a joy 
To have it round us, and her silver voice 
Is the rich music of a summer bird, 
Heard in the still night, with its passionate cadence. 



BURIAL OF THE MINNISINK. 

On sunny slope and beechen swell, 
The shadowed light of evening fell ; 
And, where the maple's leaf was brown, 
With soft and silent lapse came down, 
The glory, that the wood receives. 
At sunset, in its brazen leaves. 

Far upward in the mellow light 
Rose the blue hills. One cloud of white. 
Around a far uplifted cone. 
In the warm blush of evening shone ; 
An image of the silver lakes. 
By which the Indian's soul awakes. 






V ^ 



V 




/ 



THK SWKET SPIRIT THAT DOTH FILL THE WORLD." 



JSmial of tbe yiRinnisinf?. i6i 

But soon a funeral hymn was heard 
Where the soft breath of evening stirred 
The tall, i^ray forest ; and a band 
Of stern in heart, and strong in hand, 
Came winding down beside'the wave[ 
To lay the red chief in his grave. 

• They sang, that by his native bowers 
He stood, in the last moon of flowers, 
And thirty snows had not yet shed 
Their glory on the warrior's head ; 
But, as the summer fruit decays, 
So died he in those naked days. 




A dark cloak of the roebuck's skin 
Covered the warrior, and within 
Its heavy folds the weapons, made 
t or the hard toils of war, were laid ; 
The cuirass, woven of plaited reeds ' 
And the broad belt of shells and beads. 

Before, a dark-haired virgin train 
Chanted the death dirge of" the slain ; 
Behind, the long procession came 
Of hoary men and chiefs of fame, 
With heavy hearts, and eyes of grief, 
Leading the war-horse of their chief.' 

Stripped of his proud and martial dress, 
Uncurbed, unreined, and riderless 
11 



162 learlicr poems. 

With darting eye, and nostril spread, 
And heavy and impatient tread, 
He came ; and oft that eye so proud 
Asked for his rider in the crowd. 

They buried the dark chief ; they freed 
Beside the grave his battle steed ; 
And swift an arrow cleaved its way 
To his stern heart ! One piercing neigh 
Arose, and, on the dead man's plain, 
The rider grasps his steed again. 



Coplas t»e /iftanrique. 163 



TRANSLATIONS. 



[Don Jorge Manrique, the author of the following poem, flourished in 
the last halfof tlie fifteenth century. He followed the profession of arms, 
and died on the field of battle. Mariana, in his history of Spain, makes 
honorable mention of him, as being present at the siege of Ucles ; and 
speaks of him as " a youth of estimable qualities, who in this war gave 
brilliant proofs of his valor. He died young ; and was thus cut off from 
long exercising his great virtues, and exhibiting to the world the light of 
his genius, which was already known to fame. " He was mortally wound- 
ed in a skirmish near Canavete in the year 1479. 

The name of Rodrigo Manrique, the father of the poet, Conde de Pa- 
redes and Maestre de Santiago, is well known in Spanish history and 
song. He died in 1476 ; according to Mariana, in the town of Ucles ; 
but, according to the poem of his son, in Ocafia. It was his death that 
called forth the poem upon which rests the literary reputation of the 
younger Manrique. In the language of his historian, " Don Jorge Man- 
rique in an elegant Ode, full of poetic beauties, rich embellishments of 
genius, and high moral reflections, mourned the death of his father as 
with a funeral hymn." This praise is not exaggerated. The poem is a 
model in its kind. Its conception is solemn and beautiful ; and, in ac- 
cordance with it, the style moves on, — calm, dignified, and majestic] 



COPLAS DE MANRIQUE. 

FROM THE SPANISH. 

O LET the soul her sKimbers break, 
Let thought be quickened, and awake ; 
Awake to see 

How soon this Hfe is past and gone, 
And death comes softly stealing on. 
How silently ! 

Swiftly our pleasures glide away, 
Our hearts recall the distant day 
With many sighs ; 
The moments that are speeding fast 
We heed not, but the past, — the past. 
More highly prize. 

Onward its course the present keeps. 
Onward the constant current sweeps, 
Till life is done ; 



164 ^Translations, 

And, did we judg-e of time aright, 
The past and future in their flight 
Would be as one. 

Let no one fondly dream again. 
That Hope and all her shadowy train 
Will not decay ; 

Fleeting as were the dreams of old, 
Remembered like a tale that's told, 
They pass away. 

Our lives are rivers, gliding free 
To that unfathomed, boundless sea, 
The silent grave ! 

Thither all earthly pomp and boast 
Roll, to be swallowed up and lost 
In one dark wave. 

Thither the mighty torrents stray, 
Thither the brook pursues its way, 
And tinkling rill. 
There all are equal ; side by side 
The poor man and the son of pride 
Lie calm and still. 

I will not here invoke the throng 

Of orators and sons of song, 

The deathless few ; 

Fiction entices and deceives, 

And, sprinkled o'er her fragrant leaves, 

Lies poisonous dew. 

To One alone my thoughts arise. 

The Eternal Truth, the Good and Wise,, 

To Him I cry. 

Who shared on earth our common lot, 

But the world comprehended not 

His deity. 

This world is but the rugged road 
Which leads us to the bright abode 
Of peace above ; 

So let us choose that narrow way, 
Which leads no traveller's foot astray 
From realms of love. 



Ccplas Dc /llbamlque. 



165 



Our cradle is the startinj4-place, 
In life we run the onward race, 
And reach the goal ; 




"the saviour came."" 



When, in the mansions of the blest, 
Death leaves to its eternal rest 
The weary soul. 

Did we but use it as we ought, 

This world would school each wandering thought 

To its high state. 



166 ^langlations. 

Faith wings the soul beyond the sky, 
Up to that better world on high, 
For which we wait. 

Yes, the glad messenger of love, 
To guide us to our home above. 
The Saviour came ; 
Born amid mortal cares and fears. 
He suffered in this vale of tears 
A death of shame. 



Behold of what delusive worth 

The bubbles we pursue on earth, 

The shapes we chase, 

Amid a world of treachery ! 

They vanish ere death shuts the eye, 

And leave no trace. 

Time steals them from us, chances strange. 

Disastrous accident, and change. 

That come to all ; 

Even in the most exalted state, 

Relentless sweeps the stroke of fate ; 

The strongest fall. 

Tell me, the charms that lovers seek 
In the clear eye and blushing cheek. 
The hues that play 
O'er rosy lip and brow of snow, 
When hoary age approaches slow, 
Ah, where are they ? 

The cunning skill, the curious arts. 

The glorious strength that youth imparts 

In life's first stage ; 

These shall become a heavy weight, 

When Time swings wide his outward gate 

To weary age. 

The noble blood of Gothic name, 
Heroes emblazoned high to fame. 
In long array ; 

How, in the onward course of time, 
The landmarks of that race sublime 
Were swept away ! 



Coplas Dc /Ibaimquc. 167 

SoiiK", the degraded slaves of lust, 
Prostrate and trampled in the dust, 
Shall rise no more ; 
Others, by guilt and crime, maintain 
The scutcheon, that, without a stain, 
Their fathers bore. 

Wealth and the high estate of pride, 

With what untimely speed they glide, 

How soon depart ! 

Bid not the shadowy phantoms stay, 

The vassals of a mistress they. 

Of tickle heart. 

These gifts in Fortune's hands are found i 
Her swift revolving wheel turns round. 
And they are gone ! 
No rest the inconstant goddess knows. 
But changing, and without repose, 
Still hurries on. 

Even could the hand of avarice save 
Its gilded baubles, till the grave 
Reclaimed its prey. 
Let none on such poor hopes rely ; 
Life, like an empty dream, riits by, 
And where are they ? 

Earthly desires and sensual lust 

Are passions springing from the dust, 

They fade and die ; 

But, in the life beyond the tomb. 

They seal the immortal spirit's doom 

Eternally ! 

The pleasures and delights, which mask 
In treacherous smiles life's serious task, 
What are they, all, 
But the fleet coursers of the chase. 
And death an ambush in the race. 
Wherein we fall ? 

No foe, no dangerous pass, we heed, 
Brook no delay, but onward speed 
With loosened rein ; 
And, when the fatal snare is near, 
We strive to check our mad career, 
But strive in vain. 



168 ^ranelatlons. 

Could we new charms to age impart, 
And fashion with a cunning art 
The human face, 

As we can clothe the soul with light, 
And make the glorious spirit bright 
With heavenly grace, 

How busily each passing hour 
Should we exert that magic power, 
What ardor show. 
To deck the sensual slave of sin. 
Yet leave the freeborn soul within, 
In weeds of woe ! 

Monarchs, the powerful and the strong, 

Famous in history and in song 

Of olden time. 

Saw, by the stern decrees of fate, 

Their kingdoms lost, and desolate 

Their race sublime. 

Who is the champion ? who the strong ? 

Pontiff and priest, and sceptred throng ? 

On these shall fall 

As heavily the hand of Death, 

As when it stays the shepherd's breath 

Beside his stall. 

I speak not of the Trojan name, 

Neither its glory nor its shame 

Has met our eyes : 

Nor of Rome's great and glorious dead, 

Though we have heard so oft, and read, 

Their histories. 

Little avails it now to know 
Of ages passed so long ago. 
Nor how they rolled ; 
Our theme shall be of yesterday. 
Which to oblivion sweeps away. 
Like days of old. 

Where is the King, Don Juan ? Where 

Each royal prince and noble heir 

Of Aragon ? 

Where are the courtly gallantries ? 

The deeds of love and high emprise, 

In battle done ? 



Coplas Dc /Iftanriquc. 169 

Tourney and joust, that charmed the eye, 
And scarf, and gorgeous panoply. 
And noddinj^- plume, 
What were they but a pageant scene ? 
What but the garlands, gay and green. 
That deck the tomb ? 

Where are the high-born dames, and where 

Their gay attire, and jewelled hair. 

And odors sweet ? 

Where are the gentle knights, that came 

To kneel, and breathe love's ardent tiame, 

Low at their feet ? 

Where is the song of Troubadour ? 

Where are the lute and gay tambour 

They loved of yore ? 

Where is the mazy dance of old, 

The flowing robes, inwrought with gold, 

The dancers wore ? 

And he who next the sceptre swayed, 
Henry, whose royal court displayed 
Such power and pride ; 
O, in what winning smiles arrayed. 
The world its various pleasures laid 
His throne beside ! 

But O ! how false and full of guile 
That world, which wore so soft a smile 
But to betray ! 

She, that had been his friend before, 
Now from the fated monarch tore 
Her charms away. 

The countless gifts, the stately walls, 

The royal palaces, and halls 

All filled with gold ; 

Plate with armorial bearings wrought, 

Chambers with ample treasures fraught 

Of wealth untold ; 

The noble steeds, and harness bright. 
And gallant lord, and stalwart knight. 
In rich array. 

Where shall we seek them now ? Alas ! 
Like the bright dewdrops on the grass, 
They passed away. 




" WHERE IS THE SONG OF TROUBADOUR ':"' 



Coplas &e /Iftanrtque. I7l 

His brother, too, whose factious zeal 
Usurped the sceptre of Castile, 
Unskilled to reign ; 
What a gay, brilliant court had he, 
When all the flower of chivalry- 
Was in his train ! 

But he was mortal ; and the breath. 
That flamed from the hot forge of Death, 
Blasted his years ; 

Judgment of God ! that flame by thee, 
When raging fierce and fearfully, 
Was quenched in tears ! 

Spain's haughty Constable, the great 
And gallant Master, — cruel fate 
Stripped him of all ; 
Breathe not a whisper of his pride. 
He on the gloomy scaffold died, 
Ignoble fall ! 

The countless treasures of his care, 
Hamlets and villas green and fair, 
His mighty power, 

What were they all but grief and shame. 
Tears and a broken heart, when came 
The parting hour ? 

His other brothers, proud and high. 
Masters, who, in prosperity, 
Might rival kings ; 
Who made the bravest and the best 
The bondsmen of their high behest. 
Their underlings ; 

What was their prosperous estate. 
When high exalted and elate 
With power and pride ? 
What, but a transient gleam of light, 
A flame, which, glaring at its height. 
Grew dim and died ? 

So many a duke of royal name, 
Marquis and count of spotless fame. 
And baron brave. 

That might the sword of empire wield, 
All these, O Death, hast thou concealed 
In the dark grave ! 



172 



Their deeds of mercy and of arms, 
In peaceful days, or war's alarms, 
When thou dost show, 
O Death, thy stern and angry face. 
One stroke of thy all-powerful mace 
Can overthrow. 




i ^ ^y-. 







\ 







"Spain's champion," 

Unnumbered hosts, thpt threaten nigh. 
Pennon and standard flaunting high, 
And flag displayed ; 
High battlements intrenched around. 
Bastion, and moated wall, and mound, 
And palisade, 



Coplas &e /IRanrlque. 173 

And covered trench, secure and deep, 

All these cannot one victim keep, 

O Death, from thee. 

When thou dost battle in thy wrath, 

And thy strong shafts pursue their path 

Unerringly. 

O World ! so few the years we live, 

Would that the life which thou dost give 

Were life indeed ! 

Alas ! thy sorrows fall so fast, 

Our happiest hour is when at last 

The soul is freed. 

Our days are covered o'er with grief, 
And sorrows neither few nor brief 
Veil all in gloom ; 
Left desolate of real good, 
Within this cheerless solitude 
No pleasures bloom. 

Thy pilgrimage begins in tears. 
And ends in bitter doubts and fears, 
Or dark despair ; 
Midway so many toils appear. 
That he who lingers longest here 
Knows most of care. 

Thy goods are bought with many a groan, 

By the hot sweat of toil alone. 

And weary hearts ; 

Fleet-footed is the approach of woe, 

But with a lingering step and slow 

Its form departs. 

And he, the good man's shield and shade 
To whom all hearts their homage paid. 
As Virtue's son, 

Roderic Manrique, he whose name 
Is written on the scroll of Fame, 
Spain's champion ; 

His signal deeds and prowess high 

Demand no pompous eulogy, 

Ye saw his deeds ! 

Why should their praise in verse be sung? 

The name, that dwells on every tongue, 

No minstrel needs. 



174 tTranslations. 

To friends a friend ; how kind to all 
The vassals of this ancient hall 
And feudal fief ! 

To foes how stern a foe was he ! 
And to the valiant and the free 
How brave a chief ! 

What prudence with the old and wise ; 

What grace in youthful gayeties ; 

In all how sage ! 

Benignant to the serf and slave, 

He showed the base and falsely brave 

A lion's rage. 

His was Octavian's prosperous star, 

The rush of Caesar's conquering car 

At battle's call ; 

His, Scipio's virtue ; his, the skill 

And the indomitable will 

Of Hannibal. 

His was a Trajan's goodness, his 

A Titus' noble charities 

And righteous laws ; 

The arm of Hector, and the might 

Of Tully, to maintain the right 

In truth's just cause : 

The clemency of Antonine, 
Aurelius' countenance divine. 
Firm, gentle, still; 
The eloquence of Adrian, 
And Theodosius' love to man, 
And generous will ; 

In tented field and bloody fray, 
An Alexander's vigorous sway 
And stern command ; 
The faith of Constantine ; ay, more, 
The fervent love Camillus bore 
His native land. 

He left no well-filled treasury. 

He heaped no pile of riches high, 

Nor massive plate ; 

He fought the Moors, and, in their fall, 

Villa and tower and castled wall 

Were his estate. 



Coplas C»e /iftanriaue. 175 

Upon the hard-fou^dit battle-i^round, 
Brave steeds and gallant riders found 
A common grave ; 

And there the warrior's hand did gain 
The rents, and the long vassal train, 
The conquered gave. 

And if, of old, his halls displayed 
The honored and exalted grade 
His worth had gained, 
So, in the dark, disastrous hour. 
Brothers and bondsmen of his power 
His hand sustained. 

After high deeds, not left untold, 

In the stern warfare, which of old 

'T was his to share, 

Such noble leagues he made, that more 

And fairer regions, than before, 

His guerdon were. 

These are the records, half effaced. 

Which, with the hand of youth, he traced 

On history's page ; 

But with fresh victories he drew 

Each fading character anew 

In his old age. 

By his unrivalled skill, by great 
And veteran service to the state, 
By worth adored. 
He stood, in his high dignity, 
The proudest knight of chivalry. 
Knight of the vSword. 

He found his villas and domains 
Beneath a tyrant's galling chains 
And cruel power ; 
But, by fierce battle and blockade, 
Soon his own banner was displayed 
From every tower. 

By the tried valor of his hand, 

His monarch and his native land 

Were nobly served ; 

Let I^ortugal repeat the story. 

And proud Castile, who shared the glory 

His arms deserved. 



176 translations. 

And when so oft, for weal or woe, 

His life upon the fatal throw 

Had been cast down ; 

When he had served, with patriot zeal, 

Beneath the banner of Castile, 

His sovereign's crown ; 

And done such deeds of valor strong. 
That neither history nor song 
Can count them all ; 
Then, on Ocana's castled rock. 
Death at his portal came to knock, 
With sudden call. 

Saying, " Good Cavalier, prepare 
To leave this world of toil and care 
With joyful mien ; 

Let thy strong heart of steel this day 
Put on its armor for the fray, 
The closing scene. 

" Since thou hast been, in battle-strife, 

So prodigal of health and life. 

For earthly fame. 

Let virtue nerve thy heart again ; 

Loud on the last stern battle-plain 

They call thy name. 

" Think not the struggle that draws near 

Too terrible for man, nor fear 

To meet the foe ; 

Nor let thy noble spirit grieve, 

Its life of glorious fame to leave 

On earth below, 

" A life of honor and of worth 

Has no eternity on earth, 

'T is but a name ; 

And yet its glory far exceeds 

That base and sensual life, which leads 

To want and shame. 

" The eternal life, beyond the sky. 
Wealth cannot purchase, nor the high 
And proud estate ; 
The soul in dalliance laid, the spirit 
Corrupt with sin, shall not inherit 
A joy so great. 



Coplas De /Iftandaue. 177 

" But the i;"0()d monk, in cloistered cell, 

Shall gain it by his book and bell, 

His prayers and tears ; 

And the brave knight, whose arm endures 

Fierce battle, and against the Moors 

His standard rears. 

" And thou, brave knight, whose hand has poured 

The life-blood of the Pagan horde 

O'er all the land. 

In heaven shalt thou receive, at length, 

The guerdon of thine earthly strength 

And dauntless hand. 

" Cheered onward by this promise sure, 

Strong in the faith entire and pure 

Thou dost profess, 

Depart, thy hope is certainty. 

The third, the better life on high 

Shalt thou possess." 

" O Death, no more, no more delay ; 

My spirit longs to flee away, 

And be at rest ; 

The will of Heaven my will shall be, 

1 bow to the divine decree. 

To God's behest. 

" My soul is ready to depart, 

No thought rebels, the obedient heart 

Breathes forth no sigh ; 

The wish on earth to linger still 

Were vain, when 't is God's sovereign will 

That we shall die. 

" O thou, that for our sins didst take 
A human form, and humbly make 
Thy home on earth ; 
Thou, that to thy divinity 
A human nature didst ally 
By mortal birth, 

" And in that form didst suffer here 
Torment, and agony, and fear. 
So patiently ; 

By thy redeeming grace alone, 
And not for merits of my own, 
O, pardon me ! " 

13 



178 translations. 

As thus the dying warrior prayed, 
Without one gathering mist or shade 
Upon his mind ; 
Encircled by his family, 
Watched by affection's gentle eye 
So soft and kind ; 

His soul to Him, who gave it, rose ; 

God lead it to its long repose, 

Its glorious rest ! 

And, though the warrior's sun has set, 

Its light shall linger round us yet. 

Bright, radiant, blest. 




THE GOOD SHEPHERD. 



FROM THE SPANISH OF LOPE DE VEGA. 

Shepherd ! that with thine amorous, sylvan song 
Hast broken the slumber which encompassed me. 
That mad'st thy crook from the accursed tree. 
On which thy powerful arms were stretched so long ! 

Lead me to mercy's ever-flowing fountains ; 

For thou my shepherd, guard, and guide shalt be ; 
I will obey thy voice, and wait to see 
Thy feet all beautiful upon the mountains. 

Hear, Shepherd ! thou who for thy flock art dying, 
O, wash away these scarlet sins, for thou 
Rejoicest at the contrite sinner's vow. 

O, wait ! to thee my weary soul is crying. 
Wait for me ! Yet why ask it, when I see, 
With feet nailed to the cross, thou'rt waiting still for me ! 



(Tbe IFmage ot Go^, 179 

TO-MORROW. 

FROM THE SPANISH OF LOPE DE VEGA. 

Lord, what am I, that, with unceasing care, 

Thou didst seek after me, that thou didst wait. 

Wet with unhealthy dews, before my gate, 

And pass the gloomy nights of winter there ? 
O strange delusion ! that I did not greet 

Thy blest approach, and O, to Heaven how lost, 

If my ingratitude's unkindly frost 

Has chilled the bleeding wounds upon thy feet. 
How oft my guardian angel gently cried, 

" Soul, from thy casement look, and thou shalt see 

How he persists to knock and wait for thee! " 
And, O ! how often to that voice of sorrow, 

" To-morrow we will open," I replied. 

And when the morrow came I answered still, " To-morrow.' 

THE NATIVE LAND. 

from the SPANISH OF FRANCISCO DE ALDANA. 

Clear fount of light ! my native land on high. 

Bright with a glory that shall never fade ! 

Mansion of truth ! without a veil or shade. 

Thy holy quiet meets the spirit's eye. 
There dwells the soul in its ethereal essence. 

Gasping no longer for life's feeble breath ; 

But, sentinelled in heaven, its glorious presence 

With pitying eye beholds, yet fears not, death. 
Beloved country ! banished from thy shore, 

A stranger in this prison-house of clay. 

The exiled spirit weeps and sighs -for thee! 
Heavenward the bright perfections I adore 

Direct, and the sure promise cheers the way. 

That, whither love aspires, there shall my dwelling be. 

THE IMAGE OF GOD. 

FROM THE SPANISH OF FRANCISCO DE ALDANA. 

O Lord ! that secst. from yon starry height, 
Centred in one the future and the past, 
Fashioned in thine own image, see how fast 
The world obscures in me what once was bright I 



180 translations. 

Eternal Sun ! the warmth which thou hast given. 
To cheer hfe's flowery April, fast decays ; 
Yet, in the hoary winter of my days, 
Forever green shall be my trust in Heaven. 

Celestial King ! O let thy presence pass 
Before my spirit, and an image fair 
Shall meet that look of mercy from on high, 

As the reflected image in a glass 

Doth meet the look of him who seeks it there, 
And owes its being to the gazer's eye. 



THE BROOK. 

FROM THE SPANISH. 

Laugh of the mountain ! — lyre of bird and tree ! 
Pomp of the meadow I mirror of the morn ! 
The soul of April, unto whom are born 
The rose and jessamine, leaps wild in thee ! 

Although, where'er thy devious current strays. 
The lap of earth with gold and silver teems. 
To me thy clear proceeding brighter seems 
Than golden sands, that charm each shepherd's gaze. 

How without guile thy bosom, all transparent 
As the pure crystal, lets the curious eye 
Thy secrets scan, thy smooth, round pebbles count ! 

How, without malice murmuring, glides thy current ! 
O sweet simplicity of days gone by ! 
Thou shun'stthe haunts of man, to dwell in limpid fount! 

THE CELESTIAL PILOT. 

FROM DANTE. PURGATORIO, II. 

And now, behold ! as at the approach of morning. 
Through the gross vapors. Mars grows fiery red 
Down in the west upon the ocean floor. 

Appeared to me, — may I again behold it I 
A light along the sea, so swiftly coming. 
Its motion by no flight of wing is equalled. 

And when therefrom I had withdrawn a little 
Mine eyes, that I might question my conductor, 
Again I saw it brighter grown and larger. 

Thereafter, on all sides of it, appeared 

I knew not what of white, and underneath, 
Little by little, there came forth another. 



^be a;cnx0trial iParaDisc. 181 

My master yet had uttered not a word, 

While the first brightness into wings unfolded ; 
But, when he clearly recognized the pilot, 

He cried aloud : " Quick, quick, and bow the knee • 
Ikhold the Angel of (iod ! fold up thy hands ! 
Henceforward shalt thou see such officers ! 

See, how he scorns all human arguments, 
So that no oar he wants, nor other sail 
Than his own wings, between so distant shores ! 

See, how he holds them, pointed straight to heaven, 
Fanning the air with the eternal pinions. 
That do not moult themselves like mortal hair ! " 

And then, as nearer and more near us came 

The Bird of Heaven, more glorious he appeared. 
So that the eye could not sustain his presence, 

But down I cast it; and he came to shore 
With a small vessel, gliding swift and light, 
So that the water swallowed naught thereof. 

Upon the stern stood the Celestial Pilot ! 
Beatitude seemed written in his face ! 
And more than a hundred spirits sat within. 

" In exitii Israel out of Egypt ! " 

Thus sang they all together in one voice. 
With whatso in that Psalm is after written. 

Then made he sign of holy rood upon them, 
Whereat all cast themselves upon the shore, 
And he departed swiftly as he came. 



THE TERRESTRL\L PARADISE. 

FROM DANTE. PURGATORIO, XXVIII. 

Longing already to search in and round 
The heavenly forest, dense and living-green, 
Which to the eyes tempered the new-born day, 

Withouten more delay 1 left the bank. 
Crossing the level country slowly, slowly. 
Over the soil, that everywhere breathed fragrance. 

A gently-breathing air, that no mutation 
Had in itself, smote me upon the forehead, 
No heavier blow, than of a pleasant breeze, 

Whereat the tremulous branches readily 

Did all of them bow downward towards that side 
Where it's first shadow casts the Holy Mountain ; 



183 c:ran8latlon6. 

Yet not from their upright direction bent 
So that the little birds upon their tops 
Should cease the practice of their tuneful art ; 

But, with full-throated joy, the hours of prime 
Singing received they in the midst of foliage 
That made monotonous burden to their rhymes, 




" ALREADY MY SLOW STEPS HAD LED WE ON 
INTO THE ANCIENT WOOD." 

Even as from branch to branch it gathering swells. 
Through the pine forests on the shore of Chiassi, 
When yEolus unlooses the Sirocco. 

Already my slow steps had led me on 
Into the ancient wood, so far, that I 
Could see no more the place where I had entered. 

And lo ! my farther course cut off a river, 

Which, tow'rds the left hand, with its little waves, 
Bent down the grass, that on its margin sprang. 



^Beatrice. 183 

All waters that on earth most limpid are, 

Would seem to have within themselves some mixture, 

Compared with that, which nothing doth conceal, 
Although it moves on with a brown, brown current, 

Under the shade perpetual, that never 

Ray of the sun lets in, nor of the moon. 



BEATRICE. 

FROM DANTE. PURGATORIO, XXX., XXXI. 

Even as the Blessed, in the new covenant, 

Shall rise up quickened, each one from his grave, 
Wearing again the garments of the flesh, 

So, upon that celestial chariot, 

A hundred rose ad voccm tanti scnis. 
Ministers and messengers of life eternal. 

They all were saying, ' Bcnedictits quivcnis'' 
And scattering flowers above and round about, 
" Manibus o date I ilia picviis." 

I once beheld, at the approach of day, 

The orient sky all stained with roseate hues. 
And the other heaven with light serene adorned, 

And the sun's face uprising, over-shadowed, 
So that, by temperate influence of vapors, 
The eye sustained his aspect for long while ; 

Thus in the bosom of a cloud of flowers. 

Which from those hands angelic were thrown up, 
And down descended inside and without. 

With crown of olive o'er a snow-white veil, 
Appeared a lady under a green mantle. 
Vested in colors of the living flame. 

Even as the snow, among the living rafters 
Upon the back of Italy, congeals, 
Blown on and beaten by Sclavonian winds. 

And then, dissolving, filters through itself. 

Whene'er the land, that loses shadow, breathes. 
Like as a taper melts before a fir», 

Even such I was, without 9. sigh or teafr 
Before the song of those who chime for ever 
After the chiming of the eternal spheres ; 

But, when I heard in those sweet melodies 
Compassion for me, more than had they said, 
*' O wherefore, lady, dost thou thus consume him ? " 



184 tiranslatione. 

The ice, that was about my heart congealed, 
To air and water changed, and, in my anguish. 
Through Hps and eyes came gushing from my breast. 

Confusion and dismay, together mingled, 

F'orced such a feeble " Yes ! " out of my mouth, 
To understand it one had need of sight. 

Even as a cross-bow breaks, when 't is discharged, 
Too tensely drawn the bow-string and the bow, 
And with less force the arrow hits the mark ; 

So I gave way beneath this heavy burden, 
Gushing forth into bitter tears and sighs. 
And the voice, fainting, flagged upon its passage. 




" GENTLE SPRING ! IN SUNSHINE CLAD." 

SPRING. 

FROM THE FRENCH OF CHARLES D'ORLEANS. 
XV. CENTURY. 

Gentle Spring ! in sunshine clad. 
Well dost thou thy power display ! 

For Winter maketh the light heart sad. 
And thou, thou makest the sad heart gay. 



^be CbtlO Baleep. iss 

He sees thee, and calls to his gloomy train, 
The sleet, and the snow, and the wind, and the rain • 
And they shrink away, and they flee in fear. 
When thy merry step draws near. 

Winter giveth the fields and the trees, so old, 

Their beards of icicles and snow ; 
And the rain, it raineth so fast and cold, 

We must cower over the embers low ;' 
And, snugly housed from the wind and weather, 
Mope like birds that are changing feather. ^ 
But the storm retires, and the sky grows clear, 

When thy merry step draws near. 

Winter maketh the sun in the gloomy sky 
Wrap him round with a mantle of cloud ; 

But, Heaven be praised, thy step is nigh ; 
Thou tearest away the mournful shroud. 

And the earth looks bright, and Winter surly. 

Who has toiled for naught both late and early, 

Is banished afar by the new-born year. 
When thy merry step draws near. 



THE CHILD ASLEEP. 

FROM THE FRENCH. 

Sweet babe ! true portrait of thy father's face, 
Sleep on the bosom that thy lips have pressed ! 

Sleep, little one ; and closely, gently place 
Thy drowsy eyelid on thy mother's breast. 

Upon that tender eye, my little friend. 

Soft sleep shall come, that cometh not to me ! 

I watch to see thee, nourish thee, defend ; 
'T is sweet to watch for thee, alone for'thee ! 

His arms fall down ; sleep sits upon his brow ; 

His eye is closed ; he sleeps, nor dreams of harm. 
Wore not his cheek the apple's ruddy glow. 

Would you not say he slept on Death's cold arm ? 

Awake, my boy ! I tremble with affright ! 

Awake, and chase this fatal thought! Unclose 
Thine eye but for one moment on the light ! 

Even at the price of thine, give me repose ! 



186 Cranelations. 

Sweet error! he but slept, I breathe again; 

Come, gentle dreams, the hour of sleep beguile I 
O, when shall he, for whom I sigh in vam. 

Beside me watch to see thy waking smile ? 



THE GRAVE. 

FROM THE ANGLO-SAXON. 

For thee was a house built 
Ere thou wert born. 
For thee was a mould meant 
Ere thou of mother camest. 
But it is not made ready, 
Nor its depth measured, 
Nor is it seen 
How long it shall be. 
Now I bring thee 
Where thou shalt be ; 
• Now I shall measure thee, 
And the mould afterwards. 

Thy house is not 
Highly timbered, 
It is unhigh and low ; 
When thou art therein. 
The heel-ways are low, 
The side-ways unhigh. 
The roof is built 
Thy breast full nigh, 
So thou shalt in mould 
Dwell full cold. 
Dimly and dark. 

Doorless is that house. 
And dark it is within ; 
There thou art fast detained 
And Death hath the key. 
Loathsome is that earth-house, 
And grim within to dwell. 
There thou shalt dwell, 
And worms shall divide thee. 

Thus thou art laid, 
And leavest thy friends ; 
Thou hast no friend. 



IRlng Cbrfstian. is? 

Who will come to thee, 
Who will ever see 
How that house pleaseth thee ; 
Who will ever open 
The door for thee, 
And descend after thee ; 
For soon thou art loathsome 
And hateful to see. 



KING CHRISTIAN. 

A NATIONAL SONG OF DENMARK, 
FROM THE DANISH OF JOHANNES EVALD. 

King Christian stood by the lofty mast 

In mist and smoke ; 
His sword was hammering so fast, 
Through Gothic helm and brain it passed ; 
Then sank each hostile hulk and mast, 

In mist and smoke. 
" Fly ! " shouted they, " fly, he who can I 
Who braves of Denmark's Christian 

The stroke .'' " 

Nils Juel gave heed to the tempest's roar. 

Now is the hour ! 
He hoisted his blood-red flag once more, 
And smote upon the foe full sore. 
And shouted loud, through the tempest's roar, 

" Now is the hour ! " 
" Fly ! " shouted they, " for shelter fly ! 
Of Denmark's Juel who can defy 

The power .^ " 

North Sea ! a glimpse of Wessel rent 

Thy murky sky ! 
Then champions to thine arms were sent ; 
Terror and Death glared where he went ; 
From the waves was heard a wail, that rent 

Thy murky sky ! 
From Denmark, thunders Tordenskiol', 
Let each to Heaven commend his soul, 

And fly ! 



188 translations. 

Path of the Dane to fame and might ! 

Dark-rolling wave ! 
Receive thy friend, who, scorning flight, 
Goes to meet danger with despite, 
Proudly as thou the tempest's might, 

Dark-rolling wave ! 
And amid pleasures and alarms, 
And war and victory, be thine arms 

My grave ! 



THE HAPPIEST LAND. 

Fragment of a modern Ballad. 

FROM THE GERMAN. 

There sat one day in quiet, 
By an alehouse on the Rhine, 

Four hale and hearty fellows, 
And drank the precious wine. 

The landlord's daughter filled their cups, 

Around the rustic board ; 
Then sat they all so calm and still. 

And spake not one rude word. 

But, when the maid departed, 

A Swabian raised his hand. 
And cried, all hot and flushed with wine, 

" Long live the Swabian land ! 

" The greatest kingdom upon earth 

Cannot with that compare ; 
With all the stout and hardy men 

And the nut-brown maidens there." 

" Ha ! " cried a Saxon, laughing, ^ 
And dashed his beard with wine ; 

" I had rather live in Lapland, 
Than that Swabian land of thine ! 

" The goodliest land on all this earth. 

It is the Saxon land ! 
There have I as many maidens 

As fingers on this hand ! " 



Zbc S)caD. 189 

" Hold your tongues ! both Swabian and Saxon ! " 

A bold Bohemian cries ; 
"If there 's a heaven upon this earth, 

In Bohemia it lies. 

" There the tailor blows the flute, 

And the cobbler blows the horn, 
And the miner blows the bugle, 

Over mountain gorge and bourn." 



And then the landlord's daughter 
Up to heaven raised her hand. 

And said, " Ye may no more contend,- 
There lies the happiest land ! " 



THE WAVE. 

FROM THE GERMAN OF TIEDGE. 

" Whither, thou turbid wave.^ 
Whither, with so much haste, 
As if a thief wert thou ? " 

" I am the Wave of Life, 
Stained with my margin's dust; 
From the struggle and the strife 
Of the narrow stream I fly 
To the Sea's immensity, 
To wash from me the slime 
Of the muddy banks of Time." 

THE DEAD. 

FROM THE GERMAN OF KLOPSTOCK. 

How they so softly rest, 
All, all the holy dead, 
Unto whose dwelling-place 
Now doth my soul draw near ! 
How they so softly rest, 
All in their silent graves. 
Deep to corruption 
Slowly down-sinking ! 



190 translations. 

And they no longer weep, 
Here, where complaint is still ! 
And they no longer feel, 
Here, where all gladness flies ! 
And, by the cypresses 
Softly o'ershadowed, 
Until the Angel 
Calls them, they slumber ! 



THE BIRD AND THE SHIP. 

FROM THE GERMAN OF MULLER. 

" The rivers rush into the sea. 

By castle and town they go ; 
The winds behind them merrily 

Their noisy trumpets blow. 

" The clouds are passing far and high, 

We little birds in them play ; 
And everything, that can sing and fly, 

Goes with us, and far away. 

" I greet thee, bonny boat ! Whither, or whence, 
With thy fluttering golden band ? " — 

" I greet thee, little bird ! To the wide sea 
I haste from the narrow land. 

" Full and swollen is every sail ; 

I see no longer a hill, 
I have trusted all to the sounding gale. 

And it will not let me stand still. 

" And wilt thou, little bird, go with us ? 

Thou mayest stand on the mainmast tall, 
For full to sinking is my house 

With merry companions all." — 

" I need not and seek not company, 

Bonny boat, I can sing all alone ; 
For the mainmast tall too hea\y am I, 

Bonny boat, I have wings of my own. 



mbitber ? 191 

" High over the sails, high over the mast, 

Who shall gainsay these joys ? 
When thy merry companions are still, at last, 

Thou shalt hear the sound of my voice. 

" Who neither may rest, nor listen may, 

God bless them every one ! 
I dart away, in the bright blue day. 

And the golden fields of the sun. 

" Thus do I sing my weary song, 

Wherever the four winds blow ; 
And this same song, my whole life long, 

Neither Poet nor Printer may know." 



WHITHER? 

FROM THE GERMAN OF MULLER. 

I HEARD a brooklet gushing 

From its rocky fountain near, 
Down into the valley rushing, 

So fresh and wondrous clear. 

I know not what came o'er me, 

Nor who the counsel gave ; 
But I must hasten downward. 

All with my pilgrim-stave ; 

Downward, and ever farther. 

And ever the brook beside ; 
And ever fresher murmured. 

And ever clearer, the tide. 

Is this the way I was going ? 

Whither, O brooklet, say ! 
Thou hast, with thy soft murmur. 

Murmured my senses away. 

What do I say of a murmur ? 

That can no murmur be ; 
'T is the water-nymphs, that are singing 

Their roundelays under me. 

Let them sing, my friend, let them murmur, 

And wander merrily near ; 
The wheels of a mill are going 

In every brooklet clear. 



192 translations, 

BEWARE ! 

FROM THE GERMAN. 

I KNOW a maiden fair to see, 

Take care ! 
She can both false and friendly be, 

Beware ! Beware ! 

Trust her not, 
She is fooling thee ! 

She has two eyes, so soft and brown, 

Take care ! 
She gives a side-glance and looks down, 

Beware ! Beware ! 

Trust her not, 
She is fooling thee ! 

And she has hair of a golden hue, 

Take care ! 
And what she says, it is not true, 

Beware ! Beware ! 

Trust her not, 
She is fooling thee ! 

She has a bosom as white as snow, 

Take care ! 
She knows how much it is best to show, 

Beware ! Beware ! 

Trust her not. 
She is fooling thee ! 

She gives thee a garland woven fair, 

Take care ! 
It is a fool's-cap for thee to wear. 

Beware ! Beware ! 

Trust her not. 
She is fooling thee ! 

SONG OF THE BELL. 

FROM THE GERMAN. 

Bell ! thou soundest merrily, 
When the bridal party 
To the church doth hie ! 




13 



" I KNOW A MAIDEN FAIR TO SEE." 



194 Uranslatloiis. 

Bell ! thou soundest solemnly, 
When, on Sabbath morning, 
Fields deserted lie ! 

Bell ! thou soundest merrily ; 
Tellest thou at evening, 

Bed-time draweth nigh ! 
Bell ! thou soundest mournfully, 
Tellest thou the bitter 

Parting hath gone by ! 

Say ! how canst thou mourn ? 
How canst thou rejoice ? 

Thou art but metal dull ! 
And yet all our sorrowings, 
And all our rejoicings, 

Thou dost feel them all ! 

God hath wonders many, 
Which we cannot fathom, 

Placed within thy form ! 
When the heart is sinking, 
Thou alone canst raise it. 

Trembling in the storm ! 



THE CASTLE BY THE SEA. 

FROM THE GERMAN OF UHLAND. 

" Hast thou seen that lordly casde, 

That Castle by the Sea ? 
Golden and red above it 

The clouds fioat gorgeously. 

*' And fain it would stoop downward 
To the mirrored wave below ; 

And fain it would soar upward 
In the evening's crimson glow." 

" Well have I seen that castle, 

That Castle by the Sea, 
And the moon above it standing, 

And the mist rise solemnly." 



Zbc Blac?i Iknlcibt. 



195 



" The winds and the waves of ocean, 

Had they a merry chime ? 
Didst thou hear, from those lofty chambers. 

The harp and the minstrel's rhyme ? " 



" The winds and the waves 
of ocean. 
They rested quietly, 
But I heard on the gale a 
sound of wail. 
And tears came to mine 
eye." 

" And sawest thou on the 
turrets 
The King and his royal 
bride ? 
And the wave of their 
crimson mantles ? 
And the golden crown 
of pride ? 

" Led they not forth, in 
rapture, 
A beauteous maiden 
there ? 
Resplendent as the morn- 
ing sun, 
Beaming with golden 
hair ? " 



" Well saw I the ancient 
parents, 
Without the crown of 
pride ; 
They were moving slow, 
in weeds of woe, 
No maiden was by their 
side ! " 




" * HAST THOU SEEN THAT LORDLY CASTLE. 
THAT CASTLE BY THE SEA?'" 



THE BLACK KNIGHT. 

FROM THK GERMAN OF UHLAND. 

'T was Pentecost, the Feast of Gladness. 
When woods and fields put off all sadness. 



196 



^ranslatlone. 



Thus began the King and spake : 
" So from the halls 
Of ancient Hofburg's walls, 

A luxuriant Spring shall break." 

Drums and trumpets echo loudly, 
Wave the crimson banners proudly, 
From balcony the King looked on ; 




" ' i'M A PRINCE OF MIGHTY SWAY.' " 



In the play of spears. 
Fell all the cavaliers, 

Before the monarch's stalwart son. 

To the barrier of the fight 
Rode at last a sable Knight. 

" Sir Knight ! your name and scutcheon, say ! " 
" Should I speak it here, 
Ye would stand aghast with fear ; 

I'm a prince of mighty sway 1 " 



tTbc JBIacft IRnfgbt 197 

When he rode into the lists, 

The arch of heaven grew black with mists, 

And the castle 'gan to rock ; 
At the first blow, 
Fell the youth from saddle-bow, 

Hardly rises from the shock. 

Pipe and viol call the dances. 

Torch-light through the high halls glances ; 

Waves a mighty shadow in ; 
With manner bland 
Doth ask the maiden's hand. 

Doth with her the dance begin. 

Danced in sable iron sark. 
Danced a measure weird and dark. 

Coldly clasped her limbs around ; 
From breast and hair 
Down fall from her the fair 

Flowerets, faded, to the ground. 

To the sumptuous banquet came 
Every Knight and every Dame ; 

'Twixt son and daughter all distraught, * 
With mournful mind 
The ancient King reclined. 

Gazed at them in silent thought. 

Pale the children both did look. 
But the guest a beaker took : 

" Golden wine will make you whole ! " 
The children drank. 
Gave many a courteous thank : 

" O, that draught was very cool ! " 

Each the father's breast embraces. 
Son and daughter ; and their faces 

Colorless grow utterly ; 
Whichever way 
Looks the fear-struck father gray. 

He beholds his children die. 

•* Woe ! the blessed children both 
Takest thou in the joy of youth ; 

Take me, too, the joyless father ! " 
Spake the grim Guest, 
From his hollow, cavernous breast : 

" Roses in the spring I gather I " 



198 ^Translations. 

SONG OF THE SILENT LAND. 

FROM THE GERMAN OF SALIS. 

Into the Silent Land ! 

Ah ! who shall lead us thither ? 

Clouds in the evening sky more darkly gather. 

And shattered wrecks lie thicker on the strand. 

Who leads us with a gentle hand 

Thither, O thither, 

Into the Silent Land ! 

Into the Silent Land ! 

To you, ye boundless regions 

Of all perfection ! Tender morning-visions 

Of beauteous souls ! The Future's pledge and band ! 

Who in Life's battle firm doth stand, 

Shall bear Hope's tender blossoms 

Into the Silent Land ! 

O Land ! O Land ! 

For all the broken-hearted 

The mildest herald by our fate allotted, 

Beckons, and with inverted torch doth stand 

To lead us with a gentle hand 

To the land of the great Departed, 

Into the Silent Land ! 

L'ENVOI. 

Ye voices, that arose 

After the Evening's close, 

And whispered to my restless heart repose ! 

Go, breathe it in the ear 

Of all who doubt and fear. 

And say to them, "Be of good cheer ! " 

Ye sounds, so low and calm, 

That in the groves of balm 

Seemed to me like an angel's psalm ! 

Go, mingle yet once more 

With the perpetual roar 

Of the pine forest, dark and hoar ! 



^be Skeleton in Brmor. 199 

Tongues of the dead, not lost, 
But speaking from death's frost, 
Like fiery tongues at Pentecost ! 

Glimmer, as funeral lamps, 
Amid the chills and damps 
Of the vast plain where Death encamps ! 



BALLADS 
AND OTHER POEMS. 










" Speak ! speak ! thou fearful guest ! 
Who, with thy hollow breast 
Still in rude armor drest, 

Comest to daunt me ! 
Wrapt not in Eastern balms, 
But with thy fieshless palms 
Stretched, as if asking alms. 

Why dost thou haunt me ? " 

Then, from those cavernous eyes 
Pale flashes seemed to rise. 
As when the Northern skies 
Gleam in December ; 



200 J6aUaD0 an& ®tbcr ipocme. 

And, like the water's flow 
Under December's snow, 
Came a dull voice of woe 
From the heart's chamber. 

" I was a Viking old ! 

My deeds, though manifold, 

No Skald in song has told, 

No Saga taught thee ! 
Take heed, that in thy verse 
Thou dost the tale rehearse, 
Else dread a dead man's curse ; 

For this I sought thee. 

" Far in the Northern Land, 
By the wild Baltic's strand, 
I, with my childish hand. 

Tamed the ger-falcon ; 
And, with my skates fast-bound, 
Skimmed the half-frozen Sound. 
That the poor whimpering hound 

Trembled to walk on. 

" Oft to his frozen lair 
Tracked I the grisly bear, 
While from my path the hare 

Fled like a shadow ; 
Oft through the forest dark 
Followed the were-wolf's bark, 
Until the soaring lark 

Sang from the meadow. 

" But when I older grew, 
Joining a corsair's crew. 
O'er the dark sea I flew 

With the marauders. 
Wild was the life we led ; 
Many the souls that sped. 
Many the hearts that bled, 

By our stern orders. 

" Many a wassail-bout 
Wore the long Winter out ; 
Often our midnight shout 
Set the cocks crowing. 



Zbc Skeleton in Brmor. 201 

As we the Berserk's tale 

Measured in cups of ale, 

Draining the oaken pail, 

Filled to o'erflowing. 

" Once as I told in glee 
Tales of the stormy sea. 
Soft eyes did gaze on me, 

Burning yet tender ; 
And as the white stars shine 
On the dark Norway pine, 
On that dark heart of mine 

Fell their soft splendor, 

" I wooed the blue-eyed maid, 
Yielding, yet half afraid, 
And in the forest's shade 

Our vows were plighted. 
Under its loosened vest 
Fluttered her little breast. 
Like birds within their nest 

By the hawk frighted. 

•' Bright in her father's hall 
Shields gleamed upon the wall, 
Loud sang the minstrels all. 

Chanting his glory ; 
When of old Hildebrand 
I asked his daughter's hand, 
Mute did the minstrels stand 

To hear my story. 

" While the brown ale he quaffed. 
Loud then the champion laughed. 
And as the wind-gusts waft 

The sea-foam brightly, 
So the loud laugh of scorn. 
Out of those lips unshorn. 
From the deep drinking-horn 

Blew the foam lightly. 

" She was a Prince's child, 
I but a V'iking wild. 
And though she blushed and smiled, 
I was discarded ! 



203 JBallaDa anO ©tber ipocms. 

Should not the dove so white 
Follow the sea-mew's flight, 
Why did they leave that night 
Her nest unguarded ? 

" Scarce had I put to sea, 
Bearing the maid with me. 
Fairest of all was she 

Among the Norsemen ! 
When on the white sea-strand, 
Waving his armed hand. 
Saw we old Hildebrand, 

With twenty horsemen. 

" Then launched they to the blast, 
Bent like a reed each mast, 
Yet w^e were gaining fast. 

When the wind failed us ; 
And with a sudden flaw 
Came round the gusty Skaw, 
So that our foe we saw 

Laugh as he hailed us. 

" And as to catch the gale 
Round veered the flapping sail, 
Death ! was the helmsman's hail, 

Death without quarter ! 
Mid-ships with iron keel 
Struck we her ribs of steel ; 
Down her black hulk did reel 

Through the black water ! 

•' As with his wings aslant, 
Sails the fierce cormorant. 
Seeking some rocky haunt, 

With his prey laden, 
So toward the open main, 
Beaming to sea again. 
Through the wild hurricane, 

Bore I the maiden. 

" Three weeks we westward bore, 
And when the storm was o'er. 
Cloud-like we saw the shore 
Stretching to leeward ; 



^be MrecK of tbe Ibespcrus. 203 

There for my lady's bower 
Built I the lofty tower, 
Which, to this very hour, 
Stands looking seaward. 

" There lived we many years ; 
Time dried the maiden's tears ; 
She had forgot her fears, 

She was a mother ; 
Death closed her mild blue eyes. 
Under that tower she lies ; 
Ne'er shall the sun arise 

On such another ! 

" Still grew my bosom then, 
Still as a stagnant fen ! 
Hateful to me were men, 

The sunlight hateful ! 
In the vast forest here. 
Clad in my warlike gear. 
Fell I upon my spear, 

O, death was grateful ! 

" Thus, seamed with many scars, 
Bursting these prison bars, 
Up to its native stars 

My soul ascended ! 
There from the flowing bowl 
Deep drinks the warrior's soul. 
Skoal ! to the Northland I skoal f " 

Thus the tale ended. 

THE WRECK OF THE HESPERUS. 

It was the schooner Hesperus, 

That sailed the wintry sea ; 
And the skipper had taken his little daughter, 

To bear him company. 

Blue were her eyes as the fairy-flax, 

Her cheeks like the dawn of day, 
And her bosom white as the hawthorn buds, 

That ope in the month of May. 

The skipper he stood beside the helm, 

With his pipe in his mouth, 
And watched how the veering flaw did blow 

The smoke now West, now South. 



304 JSallaDs anD ©tber poems. 

Then up and spake an old Sailor, 
Had sailed to the Spanish Main, 

" I pray thee, put into yonder port, 
For I fear a hurricane. 

" Last night, the moon had a golden ring, 
And to-night no moon we see ! " 

The skipper, he blew a whiff from his pipe, 
And a scornful laugh laughed he. 

Colder and louder blew the wind, 

A gale from the Northeast, 
The snow fell hissing in the brine, 

And the billows frothed like yeast. 

Down came the storm, and smote amain 

The vessel in its strength ; 
She shuddered and paused, like a frighted steed. 

Then leaped her cable's length. 

" Come hither ! come hither ! my little daughter, 

And do not tremble so ; 
For I can weather the roughest gale 

That ever wind did blow." 

He wrapped her warm in his seaman's coat 

Against the stinging blast ; 
He cut a rope from a broken spar, 

And bound her to the mast. 

" O father ! I hear the church-bells ring, 

O say, what may it be ? " 
" 'Tis a fog-bell on a rock-bound coast ! " — 

And he steered for the open sea. 

" O father ! I hear the sound of guns, 

O say, what may it be? " 
" Some ship in distress, that cannot live 

In such an angry sea ! " 

" O father ! I see a gleaming light, 

O say, what may it be ? " 
But the father answered never a word, 

A frozen corpse was he. 

Lashed to the helm, all stiff and stark. 
With his face turned to the skies, 

The lantern gleamed through the gleaming snow 
On his fixed and glassy eyes. 



Zbc TlClrecft of tbe Ibespevus. 

Then the maiden clasped her hands and prayed 

That sav^d she might be ; 
And she thought of Christ, who stilled the wave, 

On the Lake of Galilee. 



205 




V 



"'O father! I SEE A GLEAMING LIGHT, 
O SAY, WHAT MAY IT BE?'" 

And fast through the midnight dark and drear, 
Through the whistling sleet and snow, 

Like a sheeted ghost, the vessel swept 
Towards the reef of Norman's Woe. 



206 :fi5aUa&0 anD ©tber poems. 

And ever the fitful gusts between 
A sound came from the land ; 

It was the sound of the tramphng surf 
On the rocks and the hard sea-sand. 

The breakers were right beneath her bows, 

She drifted a dreary wreck, 
And a whooping billow swept the crew 

Like icicles from her deck. 

She struck where the white and fleecy waves 

Looked soft as carded wool, 
But the cruel rocks, they gored her side 

Like the horns of an angry bull. 

Her rattling shrouds, all sheathed in ice, 
With the masts went by the board ; 

Like a vessel of glass, she stove and sank, 
Ho I ho ! the breakers roared ! 

At daybreak, on the bleak sea-beach, 

A fisherman stood aghast, 
To see the form of a maiden fair, 

Lashed close to a drifting mast. 

The salt sea was frozen on her breast. 

The salt tears in her eyes ; 
And he saw her hair, like the brown sea-weed, 

On the billows fall and rise. 

Such was the wreck of the Hesperus, 
In the midnight and the snow! 

Christ save us all from a death like this, 
On the reef of Norman's Woe ! 




Xlbc Xuck of BDcnbalL 207 

THE LUCK OF EDENHALL. 

FROM THE GERMAN OF UHLAND. 

Of Edenhall, the youthful Lord 

Bids sound the festal trumpet's call ; 

He rises at the banquet board, 

And cries, 'mid the drunken revellers all, 

" Now bring me the Luck of Edenhall !/' 

The butler hears the words with pain, 
The house's oldest seneschal, 
Takes slow from its silken cloth again 
The drinking-glass of crystal tall ; 
They call it The Luck of Edenhall. 

Then said the Lord : " This glass to praise, 

Fill with red wine from Portugal ! " 

The graybeard with trembling hand obeys ; 

A purple light shines over all, 

It beams from the Luck of Edenhall. 

Then speaks the Lord, and waves it light : 
" This glass of flashing crystal tall 
Gave to my sires the Fountain-Sprite ; 
She wrote in \\., If this glass doth fall. 
Farewell then, O Luck of Edenhall I 

" 'T was right a goblet the Fate should be 
Of the joyous race of Edenhall ! 
Deep draughts drink we right willingly ; 
And willingly ring, with merry call, 
Kling ! klang ! to the Luck of Edenhall ! " 

First rings it deep, and full, and mild. 
Like to the song of a nightingale ; 
Then like the roar of a torrent wild ; 
Then mutters at last like the thunder's fall, 
The glorious Luck of Edenhall. 

" For its keeper takes a race of might. 

The fragile goblet of crystal tall ; 

It has lasted longer than is right ; 

Kling ! klang ! — with a harder blow than all 

Wiin try the Luck of Edenhall ! " 



208 :fi3aUa&6 anD ®tber poems. 

As the goblet ringing flies apart, 
Suddenly cracks the vaulted hall ; 
And through the rift, the wild flames start ; 
The guests in dust are scattered all, 
With the breaking Luck of Edenhall ! 

In storms the foe, with fire and sword ; 
He in the night had scaled the wall, 
Slain by the sword lies the youthful Lord, 
But holds in his hand the crystal tall. 
The shattered Luck of Edenhall. 

On the morrow the butler gropes alone. 
The graybeard in the desert hall, 
He seeks his Lord's burnt skeleton. 
He seeks in the dismal ruin's fall 
The shards of the Luck of Edenhall, 

" The stone wall," saith he, " doth fall aside, 
Down must the stately columns fall ; 
Glass is this earth's Luck and Pride ; 
In atoms shall fall this earthly ball 
One day like the Luck of Edenhall ! " 



THE ELECTED KNIGHT. 

FROM THE DANISH. 

Sir Oluf he rideth over the plain, 

Full seven miles broad and seven miles wide, 
But never, ah never can meet with the man 

A tilt with him dare ride. 

He saw under the hillside 

A Knight full well equipped ; 
His steed was black, his helm was barred ; 

He was riding at full speed. 

He wore upon his spurs 

Twelve little golden birds ; 
Anon he spurred his steed with a clang, 

And there sat all the birds and sang. 

He wore upon his mail 

Twelve little golden wheels ; 
Anon in eddies the wild wind blew, 

And round and round the wheels they flew. 



^be BlcctcO Iknigbt. 



209 



He wore before his breast 

A lance that was poised in rest ; 

And it was sharper than diamond-stone, 
It made Sir Oluf s heart to groan. 

He wore upon his hehii 

A wreath of ruddy gold ; I % 

And that gave him the Maidens Three, 

The youngest was fair to behold. 

Sir Oluf questioned the Knight eftsoon 

If he were come from heaven down ; 
"Art thou Christ of Heaven," quoth 
he, 

" So will I yield me unto thee." 

" I am not Christ the Great, 

Thou shalt not yield thee yet ; 
I am an Unknown Knight, 

Three modest Maidens have me 
bedight." 

" Art thou a Knight elected. 
And have three Maidens 
thee bedight ; 
So shalt thou ride a tilt this 
day, 
For all the Maidens' hon- 
or ! " 



The first tilt they together 
rode 
They put their steeds to 
the test ; 
The second tilt they togeth- 
er rode, 
They proved their man- 
hood best. 




"U 



" THE YOUNGEST SORROWS TILL DEATH." 



The third tilt they together rode. 
Neither of them would yield ; 

The fourth tilt they together rode, 
They both fell on the field. 

Now lie the lords upon the plain. 
And their blood runs unto death ; 

Now sit the Maidens in the high tower, 
The youngest sorrows till death. 
14 



210 J6allaD0 aiiD ©tber poema, 

THE CHILDREN OF THE LORD'S SUPPER. 

FROM THE SWEDISH OF BISHOP TEGNER. 

Pentecost, day of rejoicing, had come. The church of the 

village 
Stood gleaming white in the morning's sheen. On the spire of 

the belfry, 
Tipped with a vane of metal, the friendly flames of the Spring- 
sun 
Glanced like the tongues of fire, beheld by Apostles aforetime. 
Clear was the heaven and blue, and May, with her cap crowned 

with roses. 
Stood in her holiday dress in the fields, and the wind and the 

brooklet 
Murmured gladness and peace, God's-peace ! with lips rosy- 
tinted 
Whispered the race of the flowers, and merry on balancing 

branches 
Birds were singing their carol, a jubilant hymn to the Highest. 
Swept and clean was the churchyard. Adorned like a leaf-woven 

arbor 
Stood its old-fashioned gate ; and within upon each cross of 

iron 
Hung was a sweet-scented garland, new twined by the hands of 

affection 
Even the dial, that stood on a fountain among the departed, 
(There full a hundred years had it stood,) was embellished 

with blossoms 
Like to the patriarch hoary, the sage of his kith and the hamlet. 
Who on his birthday is crowned by children and children's 

children, 
So stood the ancient prophet, and mute with his pencil of iron 
Marked on the tablet of stone, and measured the swift changing 

moment, 
While all around at his feet, an eternity slumbered in quiet. 
Also the church within was adorned, for this was the season 
In which the young, their parents' hope, and the loved-ones of 

heaven, 
Should at the foot of the altar renew the vows of their baptism. 
Therefore each nook and corner was swept and cleaned, and the 

dust was 
Blown from the walls and ceiling, and from the oil-painted 

benches. 



^be CbtlDreii ot tbe Xor^'s Supper. 211 

There stood the church Hke a garden ; the Feast of the Leafy 
PaviHons 

Saw we in Hving presentment. From noble arms on the church 
wall 

Grew forth a cluster of leaves, and the preacher's pulpit of oak- 
wood 

Budded once more anew, as aforetime the rod before Aaron. 

Wreathed thereon was the Bible with leaves, and the dove, 
washed with silver. 

Under its canopy fastened, a necklace had on of wild flowers. 

But in front of the choir, round the altar-piece painted by 
Horberg, 

Crept a garland gigantic ; and bright-curling tresses of angels 

Peeped, like the sun from a cloud, out of the shadowy leaf- 
work. 

Likewise the lustre of brass, new-polished, blinked from the 
ceiling. 

And for lights there were lilies of Pentecost set in the sockets. 

Loud rang the bells already ; the thronging crowd was 

assembled 
Far from valleys and hills, to list to the holy preaching. 
Hark ! then roll forth at once the mighty tones from the organ, 
Hover like voices from God, aloft like invisible spirits. 
Like as Elias in heaven, when he cast off from him his mantle. 
Even so cast off the soul its garments of earth ; and with one 

voice 
Chimed in the congregation, and sang an anthem immortal 
Of the sublime Wallin, of David's harp in the North-land 
Tuned to the choral of Luther ; the song on its powerful pinions 
Took every living soul, and lifted it gently to heaven. 
And every face did shine like the Holy One's face upon Tabor. 
Lo ! there entered then into the church the Reverend Teacher. 
Father he hight and he was in the parish ; a Christianly plainness 
Clothed from his head to his feet the old man of seventy winters. 
Friendly was he to behold, and glad as the heralding angel 
Walked he among the crowds, but still a contemplative grandeur 
Lay on his forehead as clear as on moss-covered gravestone a 

sunbeam. 
As in his inspiration (an evening twilight that faintly 
Gleams in the human soul, even now, from the day of creation) 
Th' Artist, the friend of heaven, imagines Saint John when in 

Patmos, 
Gray, with his eyes uplifted to heaven, so seemed then the old 

man; 
Such was the glance of his eye, and such were his tresses of 

silver. 



312 :©allaD0 anD ©tber ipocms. 

All the congregation arose in the pews that were numbered. 
But with a cordial look, to the right and the left hand, the old 

man 
Nodding all hail and peace, disappeared in the innermost chancel. 

Simply and solemnly now proceeded the Christian service. 
Singing and prayer, and at last an ardent discourse from the old 

man. 
Many a moving word and warning, that out of the heart came, 
Fell like the dew of the morning, like manna on those in the 

desert. 
Afterwards, when all was finished, the Teacher re-entered the 

chancel, 
Followed therein by the young. On the right hand the boys 

had their places. 
Delicate figures, with close - curling hair and cheeks rosy- 
blooming. 
But on the left of these there stood the tremulous lilies. 
Tinged with the blushing light of the morning, the diffident 

maidens, — 
Folding their hands in prayer, and their eyes cast down on the 

pavement. 
Now came, with question and answer, the catechism. In the 

beginning 
Answered the children with troubled and faltering voice, but the 

old man's 
Glances of kindness encouraged them soon, and the doctrines 

eternal 
Flowed, like the waters of fountains, so clear from lips unpol- 
luted. 
Whene'er the answer was closed, and as oft as they named the 

Redeemer, 
Lowly louted the boys, and lowly the maidens all courtesied. 
Friendly the Teacher stood, like an angel of light there among 

them. 
And to the children explained he the holy, the highest, in few 

words. 
Thorough, yet simple and clear, for sublimity always is simple, 
Both in sermon and song, a child can seize on its meaning. 
Even as the green-growing bud is unfolded when Springtide 

approaches. 
Leaf by leaf is developed, and warmed, by the radiant sunshine. 
Blushes with purple and gold, till at last the perfected blossom 
Opens its odorous chalice, and rocks with its crown in the breezes, 
So was unfolded here the Christian lore of salvation, 
Line by line from the soul of childhood. The fathers and 

mothers 



^be CbtlDrcn ot tbe %ott)*3 Supper. 213 

Stood behind them in tears, and were glad at each well-worded 
answer. 

Now went the old man up to the altar; — and straightway 
transfigured 




I "^^tS^^ 



t^^ 




" NOW WENT THE OLD MAN UV TO THE ALTAR." 

(So did it seem unto me) was then the affectionate Teacher. 

Like the Lord's Prophet sublime, and awful as Death and as 
Judgment 

Stood he, the God-commissioned, the soul-searcher, earthward 
descending. 

Glances, sharp as a sword, into hearts that to him were trans- 
parent 



314 JSallat)0 ant) ©tber ipoems. 

Shot he ; his voice was deep, was low like the thunder afar off. 
So on a sudden transfigured he stood there, he spake and he 
questioned. 

*' This is the faith of the Fathers, the faith the Apostles 

delivered, 
This is moreover the faith whereunto I baptized you, while 

still ye 
Lay on your mothers' breasts, and nearer the portals of heaven. 
Slumbering- received you then the Holy Church in its bosom ; 
Wakened from sleep are ye now, and the light in its radiant 

splendor 
Rains from the heaven downward ; — to-day on the threshold of 

childhood 
Kindly she frees you again, to examine and make your election, 
For she knows naught of compulsion, and only conviction 

desireth. 
This is the hour of your trial, the turning-point of existence. 
Seed for the coming days ; without revocation departeth 
Now from your lips the confession ; Bethink ye, before ye make 

answer ! 
Think not, O think not with guile to deceive the questioning 

Teacher. 
Sharp is his eye to-day, and a curse ever rests upon falsehood. 
Enter not with a lie on Life's journey ; the multitude hears you. 
Brothers and sisters and parents, what dear upon earth is and 

holy 
Standeth before your sight as a witness ; the Judge everlasting 
Looks from the sun down upon you, and angels in waiting 

beside him 
Grave your confession in letters of fire upon tablets eternal. 
Thus, then, — believe ye in God, in the Father who this world 

created ? 
Him who redeemed it, the Son, and the Spirit where both are 

united ? 
Will ye promise me here, (a holy promise !) to cherish 
God more than all things earthly, and every man as a brother } 
Will ye promise me here, to confirm your faith by your living, 
Th' heavenly faith of affection ! to hope, to forgive, and to suffer, 
Be what it may your condition, and walk before God in up- 
rightness .'* 
Will ye promise me this before God and man } " — W^ith a clear 

voice 
Answered the young men Yes ! and Yes ! with lips softly- 
breathing 
Answered the maidens eke. Then dissolved from the brow of 

the Teacher 



^be CbllDren of tbe XorD'6 Supper. 3i5 

Clouds with the thunders therein, and he spake on in accents 

more gentle, 
Soft as the evening's breath, as harps by Babylon's rivers. 

" Hail, then, hail to you all ! To the heirdom of heaven be ye 
welcome ! 
Children no more from this day, but by covenant brothers and 

sisters ! 
Yet, — for what reason not children ? Of such is the kingdom of 

heaven. 
Here upon earth an assemblage of children, in heaven one 

Father, 
Ruling them all as his own household, — forgiving in turn and 

chastising, 
That is of human life a picture, as Scripture has taught us. 
Blessed are the pure before God ! Upon purity and upon virtue 
Resteth the Christian Faith ; she herself from on high is de- 
scended. 
Strong as a man and pure as a child, is the sum of the doctrine. 
Which the Godlike delivered and on the cross suffered and died 

for. 
O ! as ye wander this day from childhood's sacred asylum 
Downward and ever downward, and deeper in Age's chill valley, 
O, how soon will ye come, — too soon ! — and long to turn back- 
ward 
Up to its hill-tops again, to the sun-illumined, where Judgment 
Stood like a father before you, and Pardon, clad like a mother. 
Gave you her hand to kiss, and the loving heart was forgiven, 
Life was a play and your hands grasped after the roses of heaven ! 
Seventy years have I lived already ; the Father eternal 
Gave me gladness and care ; but the loveliest hours of existence, 
When I have steadfastly gazed in their eyes, I have instantly 

known them, 
Known them all, all again ; — they were my childhood's acquaint- 
ance. 
Therefore take from henceforth, as guides in the paths of ex- 
istence, 
Prayer, with her eyes raised to heaven, and Innocence, bride of 

man's childhood. 
Innocence, child beloved, is a guest from the world of the blessed, 
Beautiful, and in her hand a lily ; on life's roaring billows 
Swings she in safety, she heedeth them not, in the ship she is 

sleeping. 
Calmly she gazes around in the turmoil of men ; in the desert 
Angels descend and minister unto her ; she herself knoweth 
Naught of her glorious attendance; but follows faithful and 
humble, 



316 ^BallaDs an^ ©tber ipoems. 

Follows so long as she may her friend ; O do not reject her, 
For she cometh from God and she holdeth the keys of the 

heavens. — 
Prayer is Innocence' friend ; and willingly flyeth incessant 
'Twixt the earth and the sky, the carrier-pigeon of heaven. 
Son of Eternity, fettered in Time, and an exile, the Spirit 
Tugs at his chains evermore, and struggles like fiames ever up- 
ward. 
Still he recalls with emotion his Father's manifold mansions, 
Thinks of the land of his fathers, where blossomed more freshly 

the flowers, 
Shone a more beautiful sun, and he played with the winged 

angels. 
Then grows the earth too narrow, too close ; and homesick for 

heaven 
Longs the wanderer again ; and the Spirit's longings are wor- 
ship; 
Worship is called his most beautiful hour, and its tongue is en- 
treaty. 
Ah ! when the infinite burden of life descendeth upon us. 
Crushes to earth our hope, and, under the earth, in the grave- 
yard, 
Then it is good to pray unto God ; for his sorrowing children 
Turns he ne'er from his door, but he heals and heJ^ps and con- 
soles them. 
Yet is it better to pray when all things are prosperous with us. 
Pray in fortunate days, for life's most beautiful Fortune 
Kneels before the Eternal's throne ; and with hands interfolded, 
Praises thankful and moved the only giver of blessings. 
Or do ye know, ye children, one blessing that comes not from 

Heaven .'' 
What has mankind forsooth, the poor! that it has not received.'* 
Therefore, fall in the dust and pray ! The seraphs adoring 
Cover with pinions six their face in the glory of him who 
Hung his masonry pendant on naught, when the world he 

created. 
Earth declareth his might, and the firmament uttereth his glory. 
Races blossom and die, and stars fall downward from heaven, 
Downward like withered leaves ; at the last stroke of midnight, 

millenniums 
Lay themselves down at his feet, and he sees them, but counts 

them as nothing. 
Who shall stand in his presence ? The wrath of the judge is 

terrific, 
Casting the insolent down at a glance. When he speaks in his 

anger 
Hillocks skip like the kid, and mountains leap like the roebuck. 



^be CbUDrcn ot tbe XorD'g Supper. 2i7 

Yet, — why are ye afraid, ye children ? This awful avenger, 

Ah ! is a merciful God ! God's voice was not in the earthquake, 

Not in the fire, nor the storm, but it was in the whispering 
breezes. 

Love is the root of creation ; God's essence ; worlds without 
number 

Lie in his bosom like children ; he made them for this purpose 
only. 

Only to love and to be loved again, he breathed forth his spirit 

Into the slumbering dust, and upright standing, it laid its 

Hand on his heart, and felt it was warm with a flame out of 
heaven. 

Quench, O quench not that flame ! It is the breath of your 
being. 

Love is life, but hatred is death. Not father, nor mother 

Loved you, as God has loved you ; for 't was that you may be 
happy 

Gave he his only Son. When he bowed clown his head in the 
death -hour 

Solemnized Love its triumph ; the sacrifice then was completed. 

Lo ! then was rent on a sudden the vail of the temple, dividing 

Earth and heaven apart, and the dead from their sepulchres ris- 
ing 

Whispered with pallid lips and low in the ears of each other 

Th' answer, but dreamed of before, to creation's enigma, — Atone- 
ment ! 

Depths of Love are Atonement's depths, for Love is Atonement. 

Therefore, child of mortality, love thou the merciful Father; 

Wish what the Holy One wishes, and not from fear, but affec- 
tion ; 

Fear is the virtue of slaves ; but the heart that loveth is willing ; 

Perfect was before God, and perfect is Love, and Love only. 

Lovest thou God as thou oughtest, then lovest thou likewise thy 
brethren ; 

One is the sun in heaven, and one, only one, is Love also. 

Bears not each human figure the godlike stamp on his forehead ? 

Readest thou not in his face thine origin ? Is he not sailing 

Lost like thyself on an ocean unknown, and is he not guided 

By the same stars that guide thee ? Why shouldst thou hate 
then thy brother ? 

Hateth he thee, forgive ! For 't is sweet to stammer one letter 

Of the Eternal's language ; — on earth it is called Forgiveness ! 

Knowest thou Him, who forgave, with the crown of thorns round 
his temples ? 

Earnestly prayed for his foes, for his murderers ? Say, dost 
thou know him ? 

Ah ! thou confessest his name, so follow likewise his example, 



218 JSSallaOs anD Otbct poeme. 

Think of thy brother no ill, but throw a veil over his failings, 

Guide the erring aright ; for the good, the heavenly shepherd 

Took the lost lamb in his arms, and bore it back to its mother. 

This is the fruit of Love, and it is by its fruits that we know it. 

Love is the creature's welfare, with God ; but Love among mor- 
tals 

Is but an endless sigh ! He longs, and endures, and stands 
waiting. 

Suffers and yet rejoices, and smiles with tears on his eyelids. 

Hope, — so is called upon earth, his recompense, — Hope, the be- 
friending. 

Does what she can, for she points evermore up to heaven, and 
faithful 

Plunges her anchor's peak in the depths of the grave, and be- 
neath it 

Paints a more beautiful world, a dim, but a sweet play of shad- 
ows ! 

Races, better than we, have leaned on her wavering promise, 

Having naught else beside Hope. Then praise we our Father 
in heaven. 

Him, who has given us more ; for to us has Hope been illumined, 

Groping no longer in night ; she is Faith, she is living assur- 
ance. 

Faith is enlightened Hope ; she is light, is the eye of affection, 

Dreams of the longing interprets, and carves their visions in 
marble. 

Faith is the sun of life ; and her countenance shines like the 
Prophet's, 

For she has looked upon God ; the heaven on its stable founda- 
tion 

Draws she with chains down to earth, and the New Jerusalem 
sinketh 

Splendid with portals twelve in golden vapors descending. 

There enraptured she wanders, and looks at the figures majestic, 

Fears not the winged crowd, in the midst of them all is her 
homestead. 

Therefore love and believe ; for works will follow spontaneous 

Even as day does the sun ; the Right from the Good is an off- 
spring. 

Love in a bodily shape ; and Christian works are no more than 

Animate Love and faith, as Rowers are the animate Springtide. 

Works do follow us all unto God ; there stand and bear wit- 
ness 

Not what they seemed, — but what they were only. Blessed is 
he who 

Hears their confession secure ; they are mute upon earth until 
death's hand 



^be Cbd^rcn of tbe %ovt>'6 Supper, 3i9 

Opens the mouth of the silent. Ye children, does Death e'er 
alarm you ? 

Death is the brother of Love, twin-brother is he, and is only 

More austere to behold. With a kiss upon lips that are fading 

Takes he the soul and departs, and, rocked in the arms of affec- 
tion. 

Places the ransomed child, new born, 'fore the face of its father. 

Sounds of his coming already 1 hear, — see dimly his pinions. 

Swart as the night, but with stars strewn upon them ! I fear 
not before him. 

Death is only release, and in mercy is mute. On his bosom 

Freer breathes, in its coolness, my breast; and face to face 
standing 

Look I on Cxod as he is, a sun unpolluted by vapors ; 

Look on the light of the ages I loved, the spirits majestic, 

Nobler, better than I ; they stand by the throne all transfigured, 

Vested in white, and with harps of gold, and are singing an an- 
them. 

Writ in the climate of heaven, in the language spoken by angels. 

You, in like manner, ye children beloved, he one day shall gather, 

Never forgets he the weary ; — then welcome, ye loved ones, here- 
after ! 

Meanwhile forget not the keeping of vows, forget not the promise, 

Wander from holiness onward to holiness ; earth shall ye heed 
not ; 

Earth is but dust and heaven is light ; I have pledged you to 
heaven. 

God of the universe, hear me ! thou fountain of Love everlast- 
ing. 

Hark to the voice of thy servant ! I send up my prayer to thy 
heaven ! 

Let me hereafter not miss at thy throne one spirit of all these. 

Whom thou hast given me here ! I have loved them all like a 
father. 

May they bear witness for me, that I taught them the way of 
salvation, 

Faithful, so far as I knew, of thy word ; again may they know 
me, 

Fall on their Teacher's breast, and before thy face may I place 
them. 

Pure as they now are, but only more tried, and exclaiming with 
gladness. 

Father, lo ! I am here, and the children, whom thou hast given 
me !" 

Weeping he spake in these words ; and now at the beck of the 
old man 



330 :ffiaUa&s an& ©tber ipoems. 

Knee against knee they knitted a wreath round the altar's en- 
closure. 

Kneeling he read then the prayers of the consecration, and 
softly 

With him the children read ; at the close, with tremulous ac- 
cents, 

Asked he the peace of Heaven, a benediction upon them. 

Now should have ended his task for the day ; the following Sun- 
day 

Was for the young appointed to eat of the Lord's holy Supper. 

Sudden, as struck from the clouds, stood the Teacher silent and 
laid his 

Hand on his forehead, and cast his looks upward ; while thoughts 
high and holy 

Flew through the midst of his soul, and his eyes glanced with 
wonderful brightness. 

" On the next Sunday, who knows ! perhaps I shall rest in the 
graveyard ! 

Some one perhaps of yourselves, a lily broken untimely, 

Bow down his head to the earth ; why delay I ? the hour is ac- 
complished. 

Warm is the heart ; — I will ! for to-day grows the harvest of 
heaven. 

What I began accomplish I now ; for what failing therein is 

I, the old man, will answer to God and the reverend father. 

Say to me only, ye children, ye denizens new-come in heaven, 

Are ye ready this day to eat of the bread of Atonement ? 

What it denoteth,that know ye full well, I have told it you often. 

Of the new covenant a symbol it is, of Atonement a token, 

Stablished between earth and heaven. Man by his sins and 
transgressions 

Far has wandered from God, from his essence. 'T was in the 
beginning 

Fast by the Tree of Knowledge he fell, and it hangs its crown 
o'er the 

Fall to this day ; in the Thought is the Fall ; in the Heart the 
Atonement. 

Infinite is the fall, — the Atonement infinite likewise. 

See ! behind me, as far as the old man remembers, and forward, 

Far as Hope in her flight can reach with her wearied pinions, 

Sin and Atonement incessant go through the lifetime of mortals. 

Brought forth is sin full-grown ; but Atonement sleeps in our 
bosoms 

Still as the cradled babe ; and dreams of heaven and of angels, 

Cannot awake to sensation ; is like the tones in the harp's 
strings, 

Spirits imprisoned, that wait evermore the deliverer's finger. 



trbe CbilDren ot tbc ltor&*g Suppet. 221 

Therefore, ye children beloved, descended the Prince of Atone- 
ment, 
Woke the slumberer from sleep, and she stands now with eyes 

all resplendent. 
Bright as the vault of the sky, and battles with Sin and o'er- 

comes her. 
Downward to earth he came and, transfigured, thence reas- 

cended, 
Not from the heart in like wise, for there he still lives in the 

Spirit, 
Loves and atones evermore. So long as Time is, is Atonement. 
Therefore with reverence receive this day her visible token. 
Tokens are dead if the things do not live. The light everlasting 
Unto the blind man is not, but is born of the eye that has 

vision. 
Neither in bread nor in wine, but in the heart that is hallowed 
Lieth forgiveness enshrined ; the intention alone of amendment 
Fruits of the earth ennobles to heavenly things, and removes all 
Sin and the guerdon of sin. Only Love with his arms wide ex- 
tended, 
Penitence weeping and praying; the Will that is tried, and 

whose gold flows 
Purified forth from the flames ; in a word, mankind by Atone- 
ment 
Breaketh Atonement's bread, and drinketh Atonement's wine- 
cup. 
But he who cometh up hither, unworthy, with hate in his bosom, 
Scoffing at men and at God, is guilty of Christ's blessed body, 
And the Redeemer's blood ! To himself he eateth and drinketh 
Death and doom ! And from this, preserve us, thou heavenly 

Father ! 
Are ye ready, ye children, to eat of the bread of Atonement ? " 
Thus with emotion he asked, and together answered the chil- 
dren, 
" Yes !" with deep sobs interrupted. Then read he the due sup- 
plications. 
Read the Form of Communion, and in chimed the organ and 

anthem : 
" O Holy Lamb of God. who takest away our transgressions, 
Hear us ! give us thy peace ! have mercy, have mercy, upon us ! " 
Th' old man, with trembling hand, and heavenly pearls on his 

eyelids, 
Filled now the chalice and paten, and dealt round the mystical 

symbols. 
O, then seemed it to me as if God. with the broad eye of midday 
Clearer looked in at the windows, and all the trees in the church- 
yard . 



232 /IRf0ccllaneou5. 

Bowed down their summits of green, and the grass on the 
graves 'gan to shiver. 

But in the children (I noted it well ; I knew it) there ran a 

Tremor of holy rapture along through their icy-cold members. 

Decked like an altar before them, there stood the green earth, 
and above it 

Heaven opened itself, as of old before Stephen ; there saw they 

Radiant in glory the Father, and on his right hand the Re- 
deemer. 

Under them hear they the clang of harpstrings, and angels from 
gold clouds 

Beckon to them like brothers, and fan with their pinions of 
purple. 

Closed was the Teacher's task, and with heaven in their 

hearts and their faces, 
Up rose the children all, and each bowed him, weeping full 

sorely. 
Downward to kiss that reverend hand, but all of them pressed 

he 
Moved to his bosom, and laid, with a prayer, his hands full of 

blessings, 
Now on the holy breast, and now on the innocent tresses. 



MISCELLANEOUS. 

THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH. 

Under a spreading chestnut-tree 

The village smithy stands ; 
The smith, a mighty man is he, 

With large and sinewy hands ; 
And the muscles of his brawny arms 

Are strong as iron bands. 

His hair is crisp, and black, and long, 

His face is like the tan ; 
His brow is wet with honest sweat. 

He earns whate'er he can. 
And looks the whole world in the face, 

For he owes not any man. 




THE SMITH, A MIGHTY MAN IS HE. 



224 /nbiscellaneous. 

Week in, week out, from morn till night, 
You can hear his bellows blow ; 

You can hear him swing his heavy sledge, 
With measured beat and slow, 

Like a sexton ringing the village bell. 
When the evening sun is low. 

And children coming home from school 

Look in at the open door ; 
They love to see the flaming forge. 

And hear the bellows roar, 
And catch the burning sparks that fly 

Like chaff from a threshing-floor. 

He goes on Sunday to the church, 

And sits among his boys ; 
He hears the parson pray and preach, 

He hears his daughter's voice. 
Singing in the village choir. 

And it makes his heart rejoice. 

It sounds to him like her mother's voice. 

Singing in Paradise ! 
He needs must think of her once more. 

How in the grave she lies ; 
And with his hard, rough hand he wipes 

A tear out of his eyes. 

Toiling, — rejoicing, — sorrowing. 
Onward through life he goes ; 

Each morning sees some task begin, 
Each evening sees it close ; 

Something attempted, something done, 
Has earned a night's repose. 

Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend. 
For the lesson thou hast taught ! 

Thus at the flaming forge of life 
Our fortunes must be wrought ; 

Thus on its sounding anvil shaped 
Each burning deed and thought. 

ENDYMION. 

The rising moon has hid the stars ; 

Her level rays, like golden bars. 
Lie on the landscape green, 
With shadows brown between. 



XLbc Zvco %oche ot 1f3air. 225 

And silver white the river i^'leams. 
As if Diana, in her dreams, 

Had dropt her silver bow 

Upon the meadows low. 

On such a tranquil night as this, 
She woke Endymion with a kiss, 

When, sleeping- in the grove. 

He dreamed not of her love. 

Like Dian's kiss, unasked, unsought. 
Love gives itself, but is not bought ; 

Nor voice, nor sound betrays 

Its deep, impassioned gaze. 

It comes, — the beautiful, the free, 
The crown of all humanity,— 

In silence and alone 

To seek the elected one. 

It lifts the boughs, whose shadows deep 
Are Life's oblivion, the soul's sleep. 

And kisses the closed eyes 

Of him, who slumbering lies. 

O weary hearts ! O slumbering eyes ! 
O drooping souls, whose destinies 

Are fraught with fear and pain. 

Ye shall be loved again ! 

No one is so accursed by fate. 
No one so utterly desolate. 

But some heart, though unknown. 

Responds unto his own. 

Responds, — as if with unseen wings. 
An angel touched its quivering strings ; 
And whispers, in its song, 
" Where hast thou staved so lony: ? " 



THE TWO LOCKS OF HAIR. 

FROM THE (IKRMAN OF PFIZER. 

A Youth, light-hearted and content, 
I wander through the world ; 

Here, Aral>like. is pitched my tent 
And straight again is furled. 

15 



226 /lRi6cellancou3. 

Yet oft I dream, that once a wife 
Close in my heart was locked, 

And in the sweet repose of life 
A blessed child I rocked. 

I wake ! Away that dream, — away ! 

Too long did it remain ! 
So long, that both by night and day 

It ever comes again. 

The end lies ever in my thought ; 

To a grave so cold and deep 
The mother beautiful was brought ; 

Then dropt the child asleep. 

But now the dream is wholly o'er, 

I bathe mine eyes and see ; 
And wander through the world once more, 

A youth so light and free. 

Two locks — and they are wondrous fair — 

Left me that vision mild ; 
The brown is from the mother's hair, 

The blond is from the child. 

And when I see that lock of gold, 
Pale grows the evening-red ; 

And when the dark lock I behold, 
I wish that I were dead. 



IT IS NOT ALWAYS MAY. 

No hay pajaros en los nidos de antano. 

Spanish Proverb, 

The sun is bright, — the air is clear, 
The darting swallows soar and sing, 

And from the stately elms I hear 
The bluebird prophesying Spring. 

So blue yon winding river flows. 

It seems an outlet from the sky, > 

Where waiting till the west-wind blows, 

The freighted clouds at anchor lie. 

All things are new ; — the buds, the leaves. 
That gild the elm-tree's nodding crest. 

And even the nest beneath the eaves ; — 
There are no birds in last year's nest ! 



All things rejoice in youth and love, 
The fulness of their tirst delight ! 

And learn from the soft heavens above 
The melting- tenderness of night. 

Maiden, that read'st this simple rhyme. 
Enjoy thy youth, it will not stay ; 

Enjoy the fragrance of thy prime, 
For O, it is not always May ! 

Enjoy the Spring of Love and Youth, 
To some good angel leave the rest ; 

For Time will teach thee soon the truth, 
There are no birds in last year's nest ! 



THE RAINY DAY. 

The day is cold, and dark, and dreary ; 
" It rains, and the wind is never weary ; 
The vine still clings to the mouldering wall, 
But at every gust the dead leaves fall, 
And the day is dark and dreary. 

My life is cold, and dark, and dreary; 
It rains, and the wind is never weary ; 
My thoughts still cling to the mouldering Past, 
But the hopes of youth fall thick in the blast. 
And the days are dark and dreary. 

Be still, sad heart ! and cease repining ; 
Behind the clouds is the sun still shining; 
Thy fate is the common fate of all, 
Into each life some rain must fall, 

Some days must be dark and dreary. 



GOD'S-ACRE. 

I LIKE that ancient Saxon phrase, which calls 
The burial-ground God's-Acre ! It is just; 

It consecrates each grave within its walls, 
And breathes a benison o'er the sleeping dust. 

God's-Acre ! Yes, that blessed name imparts 
Comfort to those, who in the grave have sown 

The seed that they had garnered in their hearts. 
Their bread of life, alas ! no more their own. 



wjW II I II IWllgi i 






T 



11^ qo. 



■/ 



^0 tbe IRivcr Gbarles. 229 

Into its furrows shall we all be cast, 

In the sure faith, that we shall rise again 
At the great harvest, when the archangel's blast 

Shall winnow, like a fan, the chaff and grain. 

Then shall the good stand in immortal bloom. 

In the fair gardens of that second birth ; 
And each bright blossom mingle its perfume 

With that of tiovvers, which never bloomed on earth. 

With thy rude ploughshare, Death, turn up the sod, 
And spread the furrow for the seed we sow ; 

This is the field and Acre of our God, 

This is the place where human harvests grow ! 

TO THE RIVER CHARLES. 

River ! that in silence windest 

Through the meadows, bright and free, 

Till at length thy rest thou findest 
In the bosom of the sea ! 

Four long years of mingled feeling. 

Half in rest, and half in strife, 
I have seen thy waters stealing 

Onward, like the stream of life. 

Thou hast taught me. Silent River ! 

Many a lesson, deep and long ; 
Thou hast been a generous giver ; 

I can give thee but a song. 

Oft in sadness and in illness, 

I have watched thy current glide, 
Till the beauty of its stillness 

Overflowed me, like a tide. 

And in better hours and brighter, 

When I saw thy waters gleam, 
I have felt my heart beat lighter, 

And leap onward with thy stream. 

Not for this alone I love thee. 

Nor because thy waves of blue 
From celestial seas above thee 

Take their own celestial hue. 

Where yon shadowy woodlands hide thee, 
And thy waters disappear. 



230 miscellaneous. 

Friends I love have dwelt beside thee, 
And have made thy margin dear. 

More than this ; — thy name reminds me 
Of three friends, all true and tried ; 

And that name, like magic, binds me 
Closer, closer to thy side. 

Friends my soul with joy remembers ! 

How like quivering flames they start, 
When I fan the living embers 

On the hearth-stone of my heart ! 

'T is for this, thou Silent River ! 
That my spirit leans to thee ; 
Thou hast been a generous giver, 
Take this idle song from me. 



BLIND BARTIMEUS. 

Blind Bartimeus at the gates 
Of Jericho in darkness waits ; 
He hears the crowd ; — he hears a breath 
Say, " It is Christ of Nazareth ! " 
And calls, in tones of agony, 
lT](rov, fXtTjaof fie / 

The thronging multitudes increase ; 
Blind Bartimeus, hold thy peace ! 
But still, above the noisy crowd. 
The beggar's cry is shrill and loud ; 
Until they say, " He calleth thee ! " 
Oiipaei, eyeijjui, cficoi-'el ae ! 

Then saith the Christ, as silent stands 
The crowed, " What wilt thou at my hands ? " 
And he replies, " O give me light ! ' 
Rabbi, restore the blind man's sight ! " 
And Jesu answers, "YTrnvf • 
rl TTtarif aov aeaaxe ere / 

Ye that have eyes, yet cannot see, 
In darkness and in misery. 
Recall those mighty Voices Three, 

Irjaov, (\(t]ct6v jxe ! 
Gapa-fi, fyeipai, vnaye / 
H niaris (tov aeaaxe ae / 




*• BLIND BARTIMEUS AT THE GATES 
OF JERICHO IN PAKKNESS WAITS," 



232 



/Ijbisccllancous. 








THE GOBLET OF LIFE. 

Filled is Life's goblet to the brim ; 
And though my eyes with tears are dim, 
I see its sparkling bubbles swim, 
And chant a melancholy hymn 
With solemn voice and slow. 

No purple flowers, — no garlands green. 
Conceal the goblet's shade or sheen, 
Nor maddening draughts of Hippocrene, 
Like gleams of sunshine, flash between 
Thick leaves of mistletoe. 

This goblet, wrought with curious art. 
Is filled with waters, that upstart, 
When the deep fountains of the heart, 
By strong convulsions rent apart, 
Are running all to waste. 

And as it mantling passes round, 
W^ith -fennel is it wreathed and crowned, 
Whose seed and foliage sun-imbrowned 
Are in its waters steeped and drowned. 
And give a bitter taste. 

Above the lowly plants it towers, 
The fennel, with its yellow flowers, 
And in an earlier age than ours 
Was gifted with the wondrous powers, 
Lost vision to restore. 



/iftaiDenbooD. 233 

It gave new strength, and fearless mood ; 
And gladiators, fierce and rude, 
Mingled it in their daily food ; 
And he who battled and subdued, 
A wreath of fennel wore. 

Then in Life's goblet freely press, 
The leaves that give it bitterness, 
Nor prize the colored waters less. 
For in thy darkness and distress 

New light and strength they give ! 

And he who has not learned to know 
How false its sparkling bubbles show. 
How bitter are the drops of woe. 
With which its brim may overflow, 
He has not learned to live. 

The prayer of Ajax was for light ; 
Through all that dark and desperate fight, 
The blackness of that noonday njght, 
He asked but the return of sight. 
To see his foeman's face. 

Let our unceasing, earnest prayer 
Be, too, for light, — for strength to bear 
Our portion of the weight of care. 
That crushes into dumb despair 
One-half the human race. 

O suffering, sad humanity ! 

ye afflicted ones, who lie 
Steeped to the lips in misery. 
Longing, and yet afraid to die. 

Patient, though sorely tried ! 

1 pledge you in this cup of grief, 
Where floats the fennel's bitter leaf! 
The Battle of our Life is brief, 

The alarm, — the struggle, — the relief, 
Then sleep we side by side. 



MAIDENHOOD. 

Maiden ! with the meek, brown eyes, 

In whose orbs a shadow lies 

Like the dusk in the evening skies ! 



234 /llbi6cellaneou6. 

Thou whose locks outshine the sun, 
Golden tresses, wreathed in one. 
As the braided streamlets run ! 

Standing-, with reluctant feet, 
Where the brook and river meet, 
Womanhood and childhood fleet ! 

Gazing, with a timid glance. 
On the brooklet's swift advance. 
On the river's broad expanse ! 

Deep and still, that gliding stream 
Beautiful to thee must seem 
As the river of a dream. 

Then why pause with indecision. 
When bright angels in thy vision 
Beckon thee to fields Elysian ? 

Seest thou shadows sailing by. 
As the dove, with startled eye, 
Sees the falcon's shadow fly ? 

Hearest thou voices on the shore, 
That our ears perceive no more. 
Deafened by the cataract's roar ? 

O, thou child of many prayers ! 

Life hath quicksands, — Life hath snares. 

Care and age come unawares I 

Like the swell of some sweet tune, 
Morning rises into noon. 
May glides onward into June. 

Childhood is the bough, where slumbered 
Birds and blossoms many-numbered ; — 
Age, that bough with snows encumbered. 

Gather, then, each flower that grows. 
When the young heart overflows, 
To embalm that tent of snows. 

Bear a lily in thy hand ; 

(iates of brass cannot withstand 

One touch of that mauic wand. 



lEjcelsior. 235 

Bear through sorrow, wrong, and ruth, 
In thy heart the dew of youth. 
On thy lips the smile of truth. 

O, that dew, like balm, shall steal 
Into wounds that cannot heal. 
Even as sleep our eyes doth seal ; 

And that smile, like sunshine, dart 
Into many a sunless heart. 
For a smile of God thou art. 



EXCELSIOR. 

The shades of night were falling fast, 
As through an Alpine village passed 
A youth, who bore, 'mid snow and ice, 
A banner with the strange device. 
Excelsior ! 

His brow was sad ; his eye beneath, 
Flashed like a faulchion from its sheath, 
And like a silver clarion rung 
The accents of that unknown tongue. 
Excelsior ! 

In happy homes he saw the light 
Of household fires gleam warm and bright ; 
Above, the spectral glaciers shone. 
And from his lips escaped a groan. 
Excelsior ! 

" Try not the Pass ! " the old man said ; 
" Dark lowers the tempest overhead, 
The roaring torrent is deep and wide ! " 
And loud that clarion voice replied. 
Excelsior ! 

" O stay," the maiden said, " and rest 
Thy weary head upon this breast ! " 
A tear stood in his bright blue eye. 
But still he answered, with a sigh. 
Excelsior I 



236 rlRisccUancous. 

•' Beware the pine-tree's withered branch ! 
Beware the awful avalanche ! " 
This was the peasant's last Good-night, 
A voice replied, far up the height, 
Excelsior ! 

At break of day, as heavenward 
The pious monks of Saint Bernard 
Uttered the oft-repeated prayer, 
A voice cried through the startled air, 
Excelsior ! 

A traveller, by the faithful hound, 
Half-buried in the snow was found. 
Still grasping in his hand of ice 
That banner with the strange device, 
Excelsior ! 

There in the twilight cold and gray, 
Lifeless, but beautiful, he lay. 
And from the sky, serene and far, 
A voice fell, like a falling star, 
Excelsior ! 




POEMS ON SLAVERY. 



[The following poems, with one exception, were written at sea, in the 
latter part of October, 1842. I had not then heard of Dr. Channing's 
death. Since that event, the poem addressed to him is no longer appro- 
priate. I have decided, however, to let it remain as it was written, a 
feeble testimony of my admiration for a great and good man.] 



TO WILLIAM E. CHANNING. 

The pages of thy book I read, 

And as I closed each one, 
My heart, responding, ever said, 

" Servant of God ! well done ! " 

Well done ! Thy words are great and bold ; 

At times they seem to me, 
Like Luther's, in the days of old. 
Half-battles for the free. 

Go on, until this land revokes 

The old and chartered Lie, 
The feudal curse, whose whips and yokes 

Insult humanity. 

A voice is ever at thy side 

Speaking in tones of might. 
Like the prophetic voice, that cried 

To John in Patmos, " Write ! " 

Write ! and tell out this bloody tale ; 

Record this dire eclipse. 
This Day of Wrath, this Endless Wail, 

This dread Apocalypse ! 



238 Ipocms on Slavery. 



THE SLAVE'S DREAM. 

Beside the ung^athered rice he lay, 

His sickle in his hand ; 
His breast was bare, his matted hair 

Was buried in the sand. 
Again, in the mist and shadow of sleep. 

He saw his Native Land. 

Wide through the landscape of his dreams 

The lordly Niger flowed ; 
Beneath the palm-trees on the plain 

Once more a king he strode ; 
And heard the tinkling caravans 

Descend the mountain-road. 

He saw once more his dark-eyed queen 

Among her children stand ; 
They clasped his neck, they kissed his cheeks, 

They held him by the hand ! — 
A tear burst from the sleeper's lids 

And fell into the sand. 

And then at furious speed he rode 

Along the Niger's bank ; 
His bridle-reins were golden chains, 

And, with a martial clank. 
At each leap he could feel his scabbard of steel 

Smiting his stallion's flank. 

Before him, like a blood-red flag. 

The bright flamingoes flew ; 
From morn till night he followed their flight, 

O'er plains where the tamarind grew. 
Till he saw the roofs of Caffre huts. 

And the ocean rose to view. 

At night he heard the lion roar. 

And the hyena scream. 
And the river-horse, as he crushed the reeds 

Beside some hidden stream ; 
And it passed, like a glorious roll of drums. 

Through the triumph of his dream. 



trbe (^00^ ipart. 239 

The forests, with their myriad tongues, 

Shouted of liberty ; 
And the Blast of the Desert cried aloud, 

With a voice so wild and free, 
That he started in his sleep and smiled 

At their tempestuous glee. 

He did not feel the driver's whip, 

Nor the burning heat of day ; 
For Death had illumined the Land of Sleep, 

And his lifeless body lay 
A worn-out fetter, that the soul 

Had broken and thrown away ! 



THE GOOD PART, 

THAT SHALL NOT BE TAKEN AWAY. 

She dwells by Great Kenhawa's side. 
In valleys green and cool ; 

And all her hope and all her pride 
Are in the village school. 

Her soul, like the transparent air 
That robes the hills above, 

Though not of earth, encircles there 
All things with arms of love. 

And thus she walks among her girls 
With praise and mild rebukes ; 

Subduing e'en rude village churls 
By her angelic looks. 



She reads to them at eventide 
Of One who came to save ; 

To cast the captive's chains asid^ 
And liberate the slave. 



And oft the blessed time foretells 
When all men shall be free ; 

And musical, as silver bells. 
Their falling chains shall be. 



\ 



240 Hboema on Slavery, 

And following her beloved Lord, 

In decent poverty, 
She makes her life one sweet record 

And deed of charity. 

For she was rich, and gave up all 
To break the iron bands 

Of those who waited in her hall, 
And labored in her lands. 

Long since beyond the Southern Sea 
Their outbound sails have sped, 

While she, in meek humility. 
Now earns her daily bread. 

It is their prayers, which never cease, 
That clothe her with such grace ; 

Their blessing is the light of peace 
That shines upon her face. 



THE SLAVE IN THE DISMAL SWAMP. 

In dark fens of the Dismal Swamp 

The hunted Negro lay ; 
He saw the fire of the midnight camp. 
And heard at times a horse's tramp 

And a bloodhound's distant bay. 

Where will-o'-the-wisps and glow-worms shine, 

In bulrush and in brake ; 
Where waving mosses shroud the pine. 
And the cedar grows, and the poisonous vine 

Is spotted like the snake ; 

Where hardly a human foot coukl pass. 

Or a human heart would dare, 
On the quaking turf of the green morass 
He crouched in the rank and tangled grass, 

Like a wild beast in his lair, 

A poor old slave, infirm and lame ; 

Great scars deformed his face ; 
On his forehead he bore the brand of shame, 
And the rags, that hid his mangled frame, 

Were the livery of disgrace. 






\^ 



JIE CROUCHED liN THE KANK AND TANGLED GRASS, 
I.IKE A WILD liEAST IN HIS LAIK." 

16 



343 Ipoems on Slaver^?. 

All things above were bright and fair, 

All things were glad and free ; 
Lithe squirrels darted here and there. 
And wild birds filled the echoing air 
With songs of Liberty ! 

On him alone was the doom of pain. 

From the morning of his birth ; 
On him alone the curse of Cain 
Fell, like a flail on the garnered grain, 
And struck him to the earth ! 



THE SLAVE SINGING AT MIDNIGHT. 

Loud he sang the psalm of David ! 
He, a Negro and enslaved, 
Sang of Israel's victory, 
Sang of Zion, bright and free. 

In that hour, when night is calmest, 
Sang he from the Hebrew Psalmist, 
In a voice so sweet and clear 
That I could not choose but hear, 

Songs of triumph, and ascriptions, 
Such as reached the swart Egyptians, 
When upon the Red Sea coast 
Perished Pharaoh and his host. 

And the voice of his devotion 
Filled my soul with strange emotion ; 
For its tones by turns were glad, 
Sweetly solemn, wildly sad. 

Paul and Silas, in their prison, 
Sang of Christ, the Lord arisen, 
And an earthquake's arm of might 
Broke their dungeon-gates at night. 

But, alas ! what holy angel 
Brings the Slave this glad evangel ? 
And what earthquake's arm of might 
Breaks his dungeon-gates at night ? 



Xlbc (SliiaC»uoon (3irl. 343 



THE WITNESSES. 

In Ocean's wide domains, 

Half buried in the sands, 
Lie skeletons in chains. 

With shackled feet and hands. 

Beyond the fall of dews. 

Deeper than plummet lies, 
Float ships, with all their crews, 

No more to sink nor rise. 

There the black Slave-ship swims, 
Freighted with human forms, 

Whose fettered, fleshless limbs 
Are not the sport of storms. 

These are the bones of Slaves ; 

They gleam from the abyss ; 
They cry, from yawning waves, 

" We are the Witnesses ! " 

Within Earth's wide domains 
Are markets for men's lives ; 

Their necks are galled with chains, 
Their wrists are cramped with gyves. 

Dead bodies, that the kite 

In deserts makes its prey; 
Murders, that with affright 

Scare school-boys from their play ! 

All evil thoughts and deeds ; 

Anger, and lust, and pride ; 
The foulest, rankest weeds. 

That choke Life's groaning tide. 

These are the woes of Slaves ; 

They glare from the abyss ; 
They cry, from unknown graves, 

" We are the Witnesses I " 

THE QUADROON CxIRL. 

The Slaver in the broad lagoon 

Lay moored with idle sail ; 
He waited for the rising moon, 

And for the evening gale. 



244 iPoeme on Slaveri?. 

Under the shore his boat was tied, 

And all her listless crew 
Watched the gray alligator slide 

Into the still bayou. 

Odors of orange-flowers, and spice, 
Reached them from time to time, 

Like airs that breathe from Paradise 
Upon a world of crime. 

The Planter, under his roof of thatch, 
Smoked thoughtfully and slow ; 

The Slaver's thumb was on the latch, 
He seemed in haste to go. 

He said, " My ship at anchor rides 

In yonder broad lagoon ; 
I only wait the evening tides. 

And the rising of the moon." 

Before them, with her face upraised, 

In timid attitude. 
Like one half curious, half amazed, 

A Quadroon maiden stood. 

Her eyes were like a falcon's, gray. 
Her arms and neck were bare ; 

No garment she wore save a kirtle gay, 
And her own long, raven hair. 

And on her lips there played a smile 

As holy, meek, and faint. 
As lights in some cathedral aisle 

The features of a saint. 

" The soil is barren, — the farm is old ; " 

The thoughtful Planter said ; 
Then looked upon the Slaver's- gold. 

And then upon the maid. 

His heart within him was at strife 

With such accursed gains : 
For he knew whose passions gave her life, 

Whose blood ran in her veins. 

But the voice of nature was too weak ; 

He took the glittering gold ! 
Then pale as death grew the maiden's cheek, 

Her hands as icy cold. 



Zbc JBelfrg of :©rucje0. 245 

The Slaver led her from the door, 

He led her by the hand, 
To be his slave and paramour 

In a strange and distant land ! 

THE WARNING. 

Beware ! The Israelite of old, who tore 
The lion in his path, — when, poor and blind, 

He saw the blessed light of heaven no more. 
Shorn of his noble strength and forced to grind 

In prison, and at last led forth to be 

A pander to Philistine revelry,— 

Upon the pillars of the temple laid 

His desperate hands, and in its overthrow 

Destroyed himself, and with him those who made 
A cruel mockery of his sightless woe ; 

The poor, blind Slave, the scoff and jest of all, 

Expired, and thousands perished in the fall ! 

There is a poor, blind Samson in this land, 

Shorn of his strength and bound in bonds of steel, 

Who may, in some grim revel, raise his hand, 
And shake the pillars of this Commonweal, 

Till the vast Temple of our liberties 

A shapeless mass of wreck and rubbish lies. 



THE BELFRY OF BRUGES AND 
OTHER POEMS. 

CARILLON. 

In the ancient town of Bruges, 
In the quaint old Flemish city. 
As the evening shades descended, 
Low and loud and sweetly blended. 
Low at times and loud at times. 
And changing like a poet's rhymes, 
Rang the beautiful wild chimes 
From the Belfry in the market 
Of the ancient town of Bruges. 



346 zbc :fiSeIfrs of :©vuges. 

Then, with deep sonorous clangor 
Calmly answering their sweet anger, 
When the wrangling bells had ended. 
Slowly struck the clock eleven. 
And, from out the silent heaven, 
Silence on the town descended. 
Silence, silence everywhere, 
On the earth and in the air, 
Save that footsteps here and there 
Of some burgher home returning, 
By the street lamps faintly burning, 
For a moment woke the echoes 
Of the ancient town of Bruges. 

But amid my broken slumbers 
Still I heard those magic numbers, 
As they loud proclaimed the flight 
And stolen marches of the night ; 
Till their chimes in sweet collision 
Mingled with each wandering vision, 
Mingled with the fortune-telling 
Gypsy-bands of dreams and fancies. 
Which amid the waste expanses 
Of the silent land of trances 
Have their solitary dwelling ; 
All else seemed asleep in Bruges, 
In the quaint old Flemish city. 

And I thought how like these chimes 
Are the poet's airy rhymes. 
All his rhymes and roundelays. 
His conceits, and songs, and ditties, 
From the belfry of his brain. 
Scattered downward, though in vain, 
On the roofs and stones of cities ; 
For by night the drowsy ear 
Under its curtains cannot hear, 
And by day men go their ways. 
Hearing the music as they pass, 
But deeming it no more, alas ! 
Than the hollow sound of brass. 

Yet perchance a sleepless wight, 
Lodging at some humble inn 
In the narrow lanes of life. 
When the dusk and hush of night 
Shut out the incessant din 



XLbc Belfry of JBrugcs, 247 

Of daylig-ht and its toil and strife, 

May listen with a ealni delight 

To the poet's melodies, 

Till he hears, or dreams he hears, 

Intermingled with the song. 

Thoughts that he has cherished long ; 

Hears amid the chime and singing 

The bells of his own village ringing. 

And wakes, and hnds his slumberous eyes 

Wet with most delicious tears. 

Thus dreamed I, as by night I lay 
In Bruges, at the Fleur-de-Ble, 
Listening with a wild delight 
To the chimes that, through the night, 
Rang their changes from the Belfry 
Of that quaint old Flemish city. 

THE BELFRY OF BRUGES. 

In the market-place of Bruges stands the belfry old and brown ; 
Thrice consumed and thrice rebuilded, still it watches o'er the 
town. 

As the summer morn was breaking, on that lofty tower I stood. 
And the world threw off the darkness, like the weeds of widow- 
hood. 

Thick with towns and hamlets studded, and with streams and 
vapors gray. 

Like a shield embossed with silver, round and vast the land- 
scape lay. 

At my feet the city slumbered. From its chimneys, here and 

there. 
Wreaths of snow-white smoke, ascending, vanished, ghost- like, 

into air. 

Not a sound rose from the city at that early morning hour. 
But I heard a heart of iron beating in the ancient tower. 

From their nests beneath the rafters sang the swallows wild and 

high ; 
And the world, beneath me sleeping, seemed more distant than 

the sky. 

Then most musical and solemn, bringing back the olden times, 
With their strange, unearthly changes rang the melancholy 
chimes. 



248 ^be :fi5elfrs of JBruacs. 

Like the psalms from some old cloister, when the nuns sing in 

the choir ; 
And the great bell tolled among them, like the chanting of a 

friar. 

Visions of the days departed, shadowy phantoms filled my 

brain ; 
They who live in history only seemed to walk the earth again ; 

All the Foresters of Flanders, — mighty Baldwin Bras de Fer, 
Lyderick du Bucq and Cressy, Philip, Guy de Dampierre. 

I beheld the pageants splendid that adorned those days of old ; 
Stately dames, like queens attended, knights who bore the Fleece 
of Gold ; 

Lombard and Venetian merchants with deep-laden argosies ; 
Ministers from twenty nations ; more than royal pomp and 
ease. 

I beheld proud Maximilian, kneeling humbly on the ground ; 
I beheld the gentle Mary, hunting with her hawk and hound ; 

And her lighted bridal-chamber, where a duke slept with the 

queen, 
And the armed guard around them, and the sword unsheathed 

between. 

I beheld the Flemish weavers, with Namur and Juliers bold, 
Marching homeward from the bloody battle of the Spurs of 
Gold ; 

Saw the fight at Minnewater, saw the White Hoods moving 

west. 
Saw great Artevclde victorious scale the Golden Dragon's nest. 

And again the whiskered Spaniard all the land with terror 

smote ; 
And again the wild alarum sounded from the tocsin's throat ; 

Till the bell of Ghent responded o'er lagoon and dike of sand, 
" I am Roland ! I am Roland ! there is victory in the land ! " 

Then the sound of drums aroused me. The awakened city's 

roar 
Chased the phantoms I had summoned back into their graves 

once more. 

Hours had passed away like minutes ; and, before I was aware, 
Lo ! the shadow of the belfry crossed the sun-illumined square. 



B Gleam of Sunsbine. 349 



MISCELLANEOUS. 



A GLEAM OF SUNSHINE. 

This is the place. Stand still, my steed, 

Let me review the scene, 
And summon from the shadowy Past 

The forms that once have been. 

The Past and Present here unite 

Beneath Time's flowing tide, 
Like footprints hidden by a brook, 

But seen on either side. 

Here runs the highway to the town ; 

There the green lane descends. 
Through which I walked to church with thee, 

O gentlest of my friends ! 

The shadow of the linden-trees 

Lay moving on the grass ; 
Between them and the moving boughs, 
A shadow, thou didst pass. 

Thy dress was like the lilies, 

And thy heart as pure as they : 
One of God's holy messengers 

Did walk with me that day. 

I saw the branches of the trees 

Bend down thy touch to meet. 
The clover-blossoms in the grass 

Rise up to kiss thy feet. 

" Sleep, sleep to-day, tormenting cares, 

Of earth and folly born ! " 
Solemnly sang the village choir 

On that sweet Sabbath morn. 

Through the closed blinds the golden sun 

I'oured in a dusty beam. 
Like the celestial ladder seen 

By Jacob in his dream. 



250 /iftiscellaneous. 

And ever and anon, the wind, 

Sweet-scented with the hay, 
Turned o'er the hymn-book's fluttering leaves 

That on the window lay. 

Long was the good man's sermon, 

Yet it seemed not so to me ; 
For he spake of Ruth the beautiful, 

And still I thought of thee. 

Long was the prayer he uttered, 

Yet it seemed not so to me ; 
For in my heart I prayed with him, 

And still I thought of thee. 

But now, alas ! the place seems changed 

Thou art no longer here : 
Part of the sunshine of the scene 

With thee did disappear. 

Though thoughts, deep-rooted in my heart. 
Like pine-trees dark and high. 

Subdue the light of noon, and breathe 
A low and ceaseless sigh ; 

This memory brightens o'er the past. 

As when the sun, concealed 
Behind some cloud that near us hangs 

Shines on a distant field. 



THE ARSENAL AT SPRINGFIELD. 

This is the Arsenal. From floor to ceiling, 
Like a huge organ, rise the burnished arms ; 

But from their silent pipes no anthem pealing 
Startles the villages with strange alarms. 

Ah ! what a sound will rise, how wild and dreary, 
When the death-angel touches those swift keys ! 

What loud lament and dismal Miserere 
Will mingle with their awful symphonies ! 

I hear even now the infinite fierce chorus, 
The cries of agony, the endless groan, 

Which, through the ages that have gone before us, 
In long reverberations reacl] our own. 



Brsenal at SprtnofielD. 25i 

On helm and harness rings the Saxon hammer, 

Through Cimbric forest roars the Norseman's song, 

And loud, amid the universal clamor, 

O'er distant deserts sounds the Tartar gong. 

I hear the Florentine, who from his palace 
Wheels out his battle-bell with dreadful din, 

And Aztec priests upon their teocallis 

Beat the wild war-drums made of serpent's skin ; 

The tumult of each sacked and burning village ; 

The shout that every prayer for mercy drowns ; 
The soldiers' revels in the midst of pillage ; 

The wail of famine in beleaguered towns ; 

The bursting shell, the gateway wrenched asunder. 
The rattling musketry, the clashing blade ; 

And ever and anon, in tones of thunder. 
The diapason of the cannonade. 

Is it, O man, with such discordant noises. 
With such accursed instruments as these. 

Thou drownest Nature's sweet and kindly voices. 
And jarrest the celestial harmonies ? 

Were half the power, that fills the world with terror. 
Were half the wealth, bestowed on camps and courts, 

Given to redeem the human mind from error. 
There were no need of arsenals or forts : 

The warrior's name would be a name abhorred ! 

And every nation, that should lift again 
Its hand against a brother, on its forehead 

Would wear forevermore the curse of Cain ! 

Down the dark future, through long generations. 
The echoing sounds grow fainter and then cease ; 

And like a bell, with solemn, sweet vibrations, 

I hear once more the voice of Christ say, " Peace ! " 

Peace ! and no longer from its brazen portals 
The blast of War's great organ shakes the skies ! 

But beautiful as songs of the immortals, 
The holy melodies of love arise. 



253 /IRiscellaneous. 



NUREMBERG. 

In the valley of the Pegnitz, where across broad meadow-lands 
Rise the blue Franconian mountains, Nuremberg, the ancient, 
stands. 

Quaint old town of toil and traffic, quaint old town of art and 

song, 
Memories haunt thy pointed gables, like the rooks that round 

them throng : 

Memories of the Middle Ages, when the emperors, rough and 

bold, 
Had their dwelling in thy castle, time-defying, centuries old ; 

And thy brave and thrifty burghers boasted, in their uncouth 

rhyme, 
That their great imperial city stretched its hand through every 

clime. 

In the court-yard of the castle, bound with many an iron band, 
Stands the mighty linden planted by Queen Cunigunde's hand ; 

On the square the oriel window, where in old heroic days 
Sat the poet Melchior singing Kaiser Maximilian's praise. 

Everywhere I see around me rise the wondrous world of Art : 
Fountains wrought with richest sculpture standing in the com- 
mon mart : 

And above cathedral doorways saints and bishops carved in 

stone, 
By a former age commissioned as apostles to our own. 

In the church of sainted Sebald sleeps enshrined his holy dust. 
And in bronze the Twelve Apostles guard from age to age their 
trust ; 

In the church of sainted Lawrence stands a pix of sculpture rare, 
Like the foamy sheaf of fountains, rising through the painted 
air. 

Here, when Art was still religion, with a simple, reverent heart. 
Lived and labored Albrecht Diirer, the Evangelist of Art; 

Hence in silence and in sorrow, toiling still with busy hand. 
Like an emigrant he wandered, seeking for the Better Land. 



IRuremberc;. 253 

Emioriwif is the inscription on the tombstone where \\i hes ; 
Dead he is not, — but departed,— for the artist never dies. 

Fairer seems the aneient city, and the sunshine seems more 

fair. 
That he once has trod its pavement, that he once has breatlied 

its air ! 

Through these streets so broad and stately, these obscure and 

dismal lanes. 
Walked of yore the Mastersingers, chantini;- rude poetic strains. 

From remote and sunless suburbs came they to the friendly 

guild. 
Building nests in Fame's great temple, as in spouts the swallows 

build. 

As the weaver plied the shuttle, wove he too the mystic rhyme, 
And the smith his iron measures hammered to the anvil's chime ; 

Thanking God, whose boundless wisdom makes the flowers of 

poesy bloom 
In the forge's dust and cinders, in the tissues of the loom. 

Here Hans Sachs, the cobbler-poet, laureate of the gentle craft, 
Wisest of the Twelve Wise Masters, in huge folios sang and 
laughed. 

But his house is now an ale-house, with a nicely sanded floor, 
And a garland in the window, and his face above the door ; 

Painted by some humble artist, as in Adam Puschman's song. 
As the old man gray and dove-like, with his great beard white 
and long. 

And at night the swart mechanic comes to drown his cark and 

care. 
Quaffing ale from pewter tankards, in the master's antique 

chair. 

Vanished is the ancient splendor, and before my dreamy eye 
Wave these mingling shapes and figures, like a faded tapestry. 

Not thy Councils, not thy Kaisers, win for thee the world's re- 
gard ; 

But thv painter, Albrecht Diirer, and Hans Sachs thy cobbler- 
bard. 



254 



/Iftiscellancous. 



Thus, O Nuremberg, a wanderer from a region far away. 
As he paced thy streets and court-yards, sang in thought his 
careless lay : 

Gathering from the pavement's crevice, as a floweret of the soil, 
The nobility of labor, — the long pedigree of toil. 

THE NORMAN BARON. 

Dans les moments de la vie oil la reflexion devient plus calme et plus 
prolonde, ou I'interet et I'avarice parlent moins haut que la raison, dans 
les instants de chagrin domestique, de maladie, et de p:-ril de mort, les 
nobles se repentirent de possider des serfs, comme d'une chose peu agre- 
able a Dieu, qui avail cree tous les hommes a son image. 

T H I K K R Y , C 'oil q nete de I ' A iigletei re. 

In his chamber, weak and dying, 
Was the Norman baron lying ; 
Loud, without, the tempest thundered, 
And the castle-turret shook. 




" WEAK AND DYING, 
WAS THE NORMAN BARON LYING." 

In this fight was Death the gainer, 
Spite of vassal and retainer. 
And the lands his sires had plundered, 
Written in the Doomsday Book. 

By his bed a monk was seated. 
Who in humble voice repeated 
Many a prayer and pater-noster. 
From the missal on his knee ; 

And, amid the tempest pealing. 
Sounds of bells came faintly stealing. 
Bells, that from the neighboring kloster 
Rang for the Nativity. 



Zbc Boiman JBaion. 255 

In the hall, the serf and vassal 

Held, that night, their Christmas wassail ; 

Many a carol, old and saintly, 

Sano- the minstrels and the waits ; 

And so loud these Saxon i^leemen 
Sano- to slaves the songs of freemen. 
That the storm was heard but faintly, 
Knocking- at the castle-gates. 

Till at length the lays they chanted 
Reached the chamber terror-haunted. 
Where the monk, with accents holy, 
Whispered at the baron's ear. 

Tears upon his eyelids glistened. 
As he paused awhile and listened, 
And the dying baron slowly 

Turned his weary head to hear. 

" Wassail for the kingly stranger 
Born and cradled in a manger ! 
King, like David, priest, like Aaron, 
Christ is born to set us free ! " 

And the lightning showed the sainted 
Figures on the casement painted. 
And exclaimed the shuddering baron, 
" Miserere, Domine ! " 

In that hour of deep contrition 
He beheld, with clearer vision. 
Through all outward show and fashion. 
Justice, the Avenger, rise. 

All the pomp of earth had vanished, 
Falsehood and deceit were banished, 
Reason spake more loud than passion, 
And the truth wore no disi^uise. 

Every vassal of his banner, 
Every serf born to his manor. 
All those wronged and wretched creatures, 
By his hand were freed again. 

And, as on the sacred missal 
He recorded their dismissal. 
Death relaxed his iron features. 

And the monk replied, " Amen ! " 



256 /Iftiacellaneous. 

Many centuries have been numbered 
Since in death the baron slumbered 
By the convent's sculptured portal, 
Mingling with the common dust : 

But the good deed, through the ages 
Living in historic pages. 
Brighter grows and gleams immortal, 
Unconsumed by moth or rust. 



RAIN IN SUMMER. 

How beautiful is the rain ! 

After the dust and heat. 

In the broad and fiery street, 

In the narrow lane, 

How beautiful is the rain ! 

How it clatters along the roofs. 

Like the tramp of hoofs ! 

How it gushes and struggles out 

From the throat of the overflowing spout ! 

Across the window-pane 

It pours and pours ; 

And swift and wide, 

With a muddy tide, 

Like a river down the gutter roars 

The rain, the welcome rain ! 

The sick man from his chamber looks 

At the twisted brooks ; 

He can feel the cool 

Breath of each little pool ; 

His fevered brain 

Grows calm again. 

And he breathes a blessing on the rain. 

From the neighboring school 

Come the boys. 

With more than their wonted noise 

And commotion ; 

And down the wet streets 

Sail their mimic fleets, 

Till the treacherous pool 

Engulfs them in its whirling 

And turbulent ocean. 



If^aiii in Summer. 257 

In the country, on every side, 

Where far and wide, 

Like a leopard's tawny and spotted hide, 

Stretches the plain, 

To the dry grass and the drier grain 

How welcome is the rain ! 

In the furrowed land 

The toilsome and patient oxen stand ; 

Lifting the yoke-encumbered head, 

With their dilated nostrils spread, 

They silently inhale 

The clover-scented gale. 

And the vapors that arise 

P>om the well-watered and smoking soil. 

For this rest in the furrow after toil 

Their large and lustrous eyes 

Seem to thank the Lord, 

More than man's spoken word. 

Near at hand. 

From under the sheltering trees. 

The farmer sees 

His pastures, and his fields of grain, 

As they bend their tops 

To the numberless beating drops 

Of the incessant rain. 

He counts it as no sin 

That he sees therein 

Only his own thrift and gain. 

These, and far more than these, 

The Poet sees ! 

He can behold 

Aquarius old 

Walking the fenceless fields of air; 

And from each ample fold 

Of the clouds about him rolled 

Scattering everywhere 

The showery rain. 

As the farmer scatters his grain. 

He can behold 
Things manifold 

That have not yet been wholly told. 
Have not been wholly sung nor said. 
For his thought, that never stops. 
Follows the water-drops 
17 



258 /IlbisccUancous, 

Down to the graves of the dead, 

Down through chasms and gulfs profound, 

To the dreary fountain-head 

Of lakes and rivers under ground ; 

And sees them, when the rain is done, 

On the bridge of colors seven 

Climbing up once more to heaven, 

Opposite the setting sun. 

Thus the Seer, 

With vision clear. 

Sees forms appear and disappear. 

In the perpetual round of strange, 

Mysterious change 

From birth to death, from death to birth. 

From earth to heaven, from heaven to earth ; 

Till glimpses more sublime 

Of things, unseen before, 

Unto his wondering eyes reveal 

The Universe, as an immeasurable wheel 

Turning forevermore 

In the rapid and rushing river of Time. 



TO A CHILD. 

Dear child ! how radiant on thy mother's knee, 

With merry-making eyes and jocund smiles. 

Thou gazest at the painted tiles, 

Whose figures grace, 

With many a grotesque form and face. 

The ancient chimney of thy nursery ! 

The lady with the gay macaw, 

The dancing girl, the grave bashaw 

With bearded lip and chin ; 

And, leaning" idly o'er his gate, * 

Beneath the imperial fan of state, 

The Chinese mandarin. 

With what a look of proud command 
Thou shakest in thy little hand 
The coral rattle with its silver bells, 
Making a merry tune ! 
Thousands of years in Indian seas 
That coral grew, by slow degrees. 
Until some deadly and wild monsoon 
Dashed it on Coromandel's sand I 



Zo a Cbil^. 259 

Those silver bells 

Reposed of yore, 

As shapeless ore, 

V'dv down in the deep-sunken wells 

Of darksome mines. 

In some obseure and sunless place. 

Beneath huj^e Chimborazo's base. 

Or steep Potosi's mountain pines ! 

And thus for thee, O little child, 

Through many a danoer and escape. 

The tall ships passed the stormy cape ; 

For thee in foreign lands remote. 

Beneath a burning-, tropic clime. 

The Indian peasant, chasing the wild goat. 

Himself as swift and wild, 

In falling, clutched the frail arbute, 

The Hbres of whose shallow root. 

Uplifted from the soil, betrayed 

The silver veins beneath it laid. 

The buried treasures of the miser. Time. 

But, lo ! thy door is left ajar ! 

Thou hearest footsteps from afar ! 

And, at the sound. 

Thou turnest round 

With quick and questioning eyes, 

Like one, who, in a foreign land. 

Beholds on every hand 

Some source of wonder and surprise ! 

And, restlessly, impatiently. 

Thou strivest, strugglest, to be free. 

The four w^alls of thy nursery 

Are now like prison walls to thee. 

No more thy mother's smiles, 

No more the painted tiles. 

Delight thee, nor the playthings on the floor. 

That won thy little, beating heart before ; 

Thou strugglest for the open door. 

Through these once solitary halls 

Thy pattering footstep falls. 

The sound of thy merry voice 

Makes the old walls 

Jubilant, and they rejoice 

With the joy of thy young heart. 

O'er the light of whose gladness 

No shadows of sadness 

From the sombre background of memory start. 



2G0 ^isccUaneouB. 

Once, ah, once, within these walls. 
One whom memory oft recalls. 
The Father of his Country, dwelt. 
And yonder meadows broad and damp 
The fires of the besieging camp 
Encircled with a burning belt. 
Up and down these echoing stairs, 
Heavy with the weight of cares. 
Sounded his majestic tread ; 
Yes, within this very room 
Sat he in those hours of gloom, 
Weary both in heart and head. 

But what are these grave thoughts to thee ? 

Out, out ! into the open air ! 

Thy only dream is liberty. 

Thou carest little how or where. 

I see thee eager at thy play. 

Now shouting to the apples on the tree, 

With cheeks as round and red as they ; 

And now among the yellow stalks, 

Among tlie flowering shrubs and plants. 

As restless as the bee. 

Along the garden walks, 

The tracks of thy small carriage-wheels 1 trace ; 

And see at every turn how they efface 

Whole villages of sand-roofed tents. 

That rise like golden domes 

Above the cavernous and secret homes 

Of wandering and nomadic tribes of ants. 

Ah, cruel little Tamerlane, 

Who, with thy dreadful reign. 

Dost persecute and overwhelm 

These hapless Troglodytes of thy realm ! 

What ! tired already ! with those suppliant looks, 
And voice more beautiful than a poet's books, 
Or murmuring sound of water as it flows. 
Thou comest back to parley with repose ! 
This rustic seat in the old apple-tree, 
With its o'erhanging golden canopy 
Of leaves illuminate with autumnal hues. 
And shining with the argent light of dews, 
Shall for a season be our place of rest. 
Beneath us, like an oriole's pendent nest. 
From which the laughing birds have taken wing, 
By thee abandoned, hangs thy vacant swing. 



Zo a CbilO. 201 

Dream-like the waters of the river gleam ; 
A sailless vessel drops adown the stream, 
And like it, to a sea as wide and deep. 
Thou driftest gently down the tides of sleep. 

child ! O new-born denizen 
Of life's great city ! on thy head 
The glory of the morn is shed, 
Like a celestial benison ! 

Here at the portal thou dost stand, 
And with thy little hand 
Thou openest the mysterious gate 
Into the future's undiscovered land. 

1 see its valves expand, 
As at the touch of Fate ! 

Into those realms of love and hate. 

Into that darkness blank and drear, 

By some prophetic feeling taught, 

I launch the bold, adventurous thought, 

Freighted with hope and fear ; 

As upon subterranean streams, 

In caverns unexplored and dark, 

Men sometimes launch a fragile bark. 

Laden with flickering fire. 

And watch its swift-receding beams, 

Until at length they disappear. 

And in the distant dark expire. 

By what astrology of fear or hope 

Dare I to cast thy horoscope ! 

Like the new moon thy life appears ; 

A little strip of silver light. 

And widening outward into night 

The shadowy disk of future years ; 

And yet upon its outer rim, 

A luminous circle, faint and dim. 

And scarcely visible to us here, 

Rounds and completes the perfect sphere ; 

A prophecy and intimation, 

A pale and feeble adumbration, 

Of the great world of light, that lies 

Behind all human destinies. 

Ah ! if thy fate, with anguish fraught. 
Should be to wet the dusty soil 
With the hot tears and sweat of toil, — 
To struggle with imperious thought. 



3G3 /llbisceUaneous. 

Until the overburdened brain, 
Weary with labor, faint with pain, 
Like a jarred pendulum, retain 
Only its motion, not its power, — 
Remember, in that perilous hour, 
When most afflicted and oppressed, 
From labor there shall come forth rest. 

And if a more auspicious fate 

On thy advancing steps await. 

Still let it ever be thy pride 

To linger by the laborer's side ; 

With words of sympathy or song 

To cheer the dreary march along 

Of the great army of the poor. 

O'er desert sand, o'er dangerous moor. 

Nor to thyself the task shall be 

Without rew^ard ; for thou shalt learn 

The wisdom early to discern 

True beauty in utility ; 

As great Pythagoras of yore, 

Standing beside the blacksmith's door, 

And hearing the hammers, as they smote 

The anvils with a different note. 

Stole from the varying tones, that hung 

Vibrant on every iron tongue, 

The secret of the sounding wire, 

And formed the seven-chorded lyre. 

Enough ! I will not play the Seer ; 
I willno longer strive to ope 
The mystic volume, where appear 
The herald Hope, forerunning Fear, 
And Fear, the pursuivant of Hope. 
Thy destiny remains untold ; 
For, like Acestes' shaft of old, 
The swift thought kindles as it flies, 
And burns to ashes m the skies. 



THE OCCULTATION OF ORION. 

I SAW, as in a dream sublime, 
The balance in the hand of Time. 
O'er East and West its beam impended ; 
And day, with all its hours of light, 
Was slowly sinking out of sight, 



CTbe ©ccultation ot Qvion, 263 

While, opposite, the scale of night 
Silently with the stars ascended. 

Like the astrologers of eld. 

In that bright vision 1 beheld 

Greater and deeper mysteries. 

I saw, with its celestial keys. 

Its chords of air, its frets of fire, 

The Samian's great .4iolian lyre, 

Rising through all its sevenfold bars, 

From earth imto the fixed stars. 

And through the dewy atmosphere, 

Not only could I see, but hear, 

Its wondrous and harmonious strings, 

In sweet vibration, sphere by sphere. 

From Dian's circle light and near, 

Onward to vaster and wider rings, 

Where, chanting through his beard of snows, 

Majestic, mournful, Saturn goes. 

And down the sunless realms of space 

Reverberates the thunder of his bass. 

Beneath the sky's triumphal arch 
This music sounded like a march, 
And with its chorus seemed to be 
Preluding some great tragedy. 
Sirius was rising in the east ; 
And, slow ascending one by one. 
The kindling constellations shone. 
Begirt with many a blazing star. 
Stood the great giant Algebar, 
Orion, hunter of the beast ! 
His sword hung gleaming by his side, 
And, on his arm, the lion's hide 
Scattered across the midnight air 
The golden radiance of its hair. 

The moon was pallid, but not faint ; 

And beautiful as some fair saint. 

Serenely moving on her way 

In hours of trial and dismay. 

As if she heard the voice of God, 

Unharmed with naked feet she trod ; 

Upon the hot and burning stars. 

As on the glowing coals and bars. 

That were to prove her strength, and try 

Her holiness and her purity. ^ ' 



264 /Iftlscellaneous. 

Thus moving on, with silent pace, 
And triumph in her sweet, pale face, 
She reached the station of Orion. 
Aghast he stood in strange alarm ! 
And suddenly from his outstretched arm 
Down fell the red skin of the lion 
Into the river at his feet. 
His mighty club no longer beat 
The forehead of the bull ; but he 
Reeled as of yore beside the sea, 
When, blinded by CEnopion, 
He sought the blacksmith at his forge, 
And, climbing up the mountain gorge. 
Fixed his blank eyes upon the sun. 

Then, through the silence overhead, 

An angel with a trumpet said, 

" Forevermore, forevermore. 

The reign of violence is o'er ! " 

And, like an instrument that flings 

Its rr.usic on another's strings, 

The trumpet of the angel cast 

Upon the heavenly lyre its blast. 

And on from sphere to sphere the words 

Re-echoed down the burning chords, — 

" Forevermore, forevermore. 

The reign of violence is o'er ! " 



THE BRIDGE. 

I STOOD on the bridge at midnight, 
As the clocks were striking the hour, 

And the moon rose o'er the city, 
Behind the dark church-tower. 

I saw her bright reflection 

In the waters under me. 
Like a golden goblet falling 

And sinking into the sea. 

And far in the hazy distance- 
Of that lovely night in June, 

The blaze of the flaming furnace 
Gleamed redder than the moon. 

Among the long, black rafters 
The wavering shadows lay. 



Zlyc JBriDae. 265 

And the current that came from the ocean 
Seemed to Hft and bear them away ; 

As, sweeping and eddyinj^ through them, 

Rose the belated tide, 
And, streaming into the moonlight, 

The seaweed floated wide. 

And like those waters rushing 

Among the wooden piers, 
A flood of thoughts came o'er me 

Tiiat filled my eyes with tears. 

How often, O how often. 

In the days that had gone by, 
I had stood on that bridge at midnight 

And gazed on that wave and sky ! 

How often, O how often, 

I had wished that the ebbing tide 
Would bear me away on its bosom 

O'er the ocean wild and wide ! 

For my heart was hot and restless, 

And my life was full of care. 
And the burden laid upon me 

Seemed greater than I could bear. 

But now it has fallen from me. 

It is buried in the sea ; 
And only the sorrow of others 

Throws its shadow over me. 

Yet whenever I cross the river 

On its bridge with wooden piers. 
Like the odor of brine from the ocean 

Comes the thought of other years. 

And I think how many thousands 

Of care-encumbered men. 
Each bearing his burden of sorrow, . 

Have crossed the bridge since then. 

I see the long procession 

Still passing to and fro. 
The young heart hot and restless. 

And the old subdued and slow ! 



266 



/lfti0ceUaneou0. 



And forever and forever, 
As long as the river flows, 

As long as the heart has passions. 
As long as life has woes ; 

The moon and its broken reflection 
And its shadows shall appear, 

As the symbol of love in heaven, 
And its wavering image here. 



TO THE DRIVING CLOUD. 



Gloomy and dark art thou, O chief of 
the mighty Omawhaws, 

Gloomy ancl dark as the driving cloud, 
whose name thou hast taken ! 

Wrapt in thy scarlet blanket, I see thee 
stalk through the city's 

Narrow and populous streets, as once 
by the margin of rivers 

Stalked those birds unknown, that have 
left us only their footprints. 

What, in a feM^ short years, will remain 
of thy race but the footprints ? 

How canst thou walk in these streets, 
who hast trod the green turf of 
the prairies ? 

How^ canst thou breathe in this air, 
who hast breathed the sweet air of 
the mountains .'' 

Ah ! 't is in vain that with lordly looks 
of disdain thou dost challenge 

Looks of disdain in return, and ques- 
tion these walls and these pave- 
ments. 

Claiming the soil for thy hunting- 
grounds, while down-trodden mill- 
ions 
Starve in the garrets of Europe, and cry from its caverns that 

they, too, 
Have been created heirs of the earth, and claim its division ! 

Back, then, back to thy woods in the regions west of the Wa- 
bash ! 




V. 



'.y 



O CHIEF OF THE MIGHTV 
OMAWHAWS." 



SeavveeD, 267 

There as a monarch thou reignest. In autumn the leaves of the 
maple 

Pave the Hoors of thy palace-halls with gold, and in summer 

Pine-trees waft through its chambers the odorous breath of their 
branches. 

There thou art strong and great, a hero, a tamer of horses ! 

There thou chasest the stately stag on the banks of the Elk- 
horn, 

Or by the roar of the Running-Water, or where the Omawhaw 

Calls thee, and leaps through the wild ravine like a brave of the 
Blackfeet ! 

Hark ! what murmurs arise from the heart of those mountainous 
deserts ? 

Is it the cry of the Foxes and Crows, or the mighty Behemoth, 

Wlio. unharmed, on his tusks once caught the bolts of the thun- 
der. 

And now lurks in his lair to destroy the race of the red man ? 

Far more fatal to thee and thy race than the Crows and the 
Foxes, 

Far more fatal to thee and thy race than the tread of Behemoth, 

Lo ! the big thunder-canoe, that steadily breasts the Missouri's ' 

Merciless current ! and yonder, afar on the prairies, the camp- 
fires 

Gleam through the night ; and the cloud of dust in the gray of 
the daybreak 

Marks not the buffalo's track, nor the Mandan's dexterous horse- 
race ; 

It is a caravan, whitening the desert where dwell the Camanches ! 

Ha ! how the breath of these Saxons and Celts, like the blast of 
the east-wind. 

Drifts evermore to the west the scanty smokes of thy wigwams ! 



SONGS AND SONNETS. 



SEAWEED. 

When descends on the Atlantic 

The gigantic 
Storm-wind of the equinox. 
Landward in his wrath he scourges 

The toiling surges. 
Laden with seaweed from the rocks : 



268 Songs anD Sonnets. 

From Bermuda's reefs ; from edges 

Of sunken ledges, 
In some far-off, bright Azore ; 
From Bahama, and the dashing. 

Silver-flashing 
Surges of San Salvador; 

From the tumbling surf, that buries 
The Orkneyan skerries, 

Answering the hoarse Hebrides; 

And from wrecks of ships, and drifting 
Spars, uplifting 

On the desolate, rainy seas; — 

Ever drifting, drifting, drifting 

On the shifting 
Currents of the restless main ; 
Till in sheltered coves, and reaches 

Of sandy beaches. 
All have found repose again. 

So when storms of wild emotion 

Strike the ocean 
Of the poet's soul, ere long 
From each cave and rocky fastness. 

In its vastness. 
Floats some fragment of a song : 

From the far-off isles enchanted, 

Heaven has planted 
With the golden fruit of Truth ; 
From the flashing surf, whose vision 

Gleams Elysian 
In the tropic clime of Youth ; 

From the strong Will, and the Endeavor 

That forever 
Wrestle with the tides of Fate ; 
From the wreck of Hopes far-scattered, 

Tempest-shattered, 
Floating waste and desolate ;— 

Ever drifting, drifting, drifting 

On the shifting 
Currents of the restless heart ; 
Till at length in books recorded. 

They, like hoarded 
Household words, no more depart, 



Cbe Das His Done. 269 



THE DAY IS DONE. 

The day is done, and the darkness 
Falls from the whigs of Night, 

As a feather is wafted downward 
From an eagle in his flight. 

I see the lights of the village 

Gleam through the rain and the mist, 
And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me 

That my soul cannot resist : 

A feeling of sadness and longing, 

That is not akin to pain, 
And resembles sorrow only 

As the mist resembles the rain. 

Come, read to me some poem. 
Some simple and heartfelt lay. 

That shall soothe this restless feeling, 
And banish the thoughts of day. 

Not from the grand old masters, 
Not from the bards sublime. 

Whose distant footsteps echo 
Through the corridors of Time. 

For, like strains of martial music, 
Their mighty thoughts suggest 

Life's endless toil and endeavor ; 
And to-night 1 long for rest. 

Read from some humbler poet. 

Whose songs gushed from his heart. 

As showers from the clouds of summer, 
Or tears from the eyelids start ; 

Who, through long days of labor, 

And nights devoid of ease, 
Still heard in his soul the music 

Of wonderful melodies. 

Such songs have power to quiet 

The restless pulse of care. 
And come like the benediction 

That follows after prayer. 



270 BowQB anC) Sonnets. 

Then read from the treasured volume 
The poem of thy choice, 

And lend to the rhyme of the poet 
The beauty of thy voice. 

And the night shall be filled with music 
And the cares, that infest the day. 

Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs, 
And as silently steal away. 



AFTERNOON IN FEBRUARY. 

The day is ending, 
The night is descending ; 
The marsh is frozen, 
The river dead. 

Through clouds like ashes 
. The red sun flashes 
On village windows 
That glimmer red. 

The snow recommences ; 
The buried fences 
Mark no longer 

The road o'er the plain ; 

While through the meadows. 
Like fearful shadows, 
Slowly passes 
A funeral train. 

The bell is pealing, 
And every feeling 
Within me responds 
To the dismal knell ; 

Shadows are trailing, 
My heart is bewailing 
And tolling within 
Like a funeral bell. 



^0 an ©ID S)ani6b Som^JBoo\{, 



271 



TO AN OLD DANISH SONG-BOOK 

Welcome, my old friend, 
Welcome to a foreig'ii fireside, 
While the sullen gales of autumn 
Shake the windows. 

The ungrateful world 
Has, it seems, dealt harshly with thee, 
Since, beneath the skies of Denmark, 
First I met thee. 




" SOILED AND DULL THOU ART." 



There are marks of age, 
There are thumb-marks on thy margin. 
Made by hands that clasped thee rudely, 
At the ale house. 

Soiled and dull thou art ; 
Yellow are thy time-worn pages, 
As the russet, rain molested 
Leaves of autumn. 



Thou art stained with wine 
Scattered from hilarious goblets. 
As these leaves with the libations 
Of Olympus. 



27^ Bongs anD Sonnets. 

Yet dost thou recall 
Days departed, half-forgotten, 
When in dreamy youth I wandered 
By the Baltic, — 

When I paused to hear 
The old ballad of King Christian 
Shouted from suburban taverns 
In the twilight. 

Thou recallest bards. 

Who, in solitary chambers. 

And with hearts by passion wasted, 

Wrote thy pages. 

Thou recallest homes 
Where thy songs of love and friendship 
Made the gloomy Northern winter 
Bright as summer. 

Once some ancient Scald, 
In his bleak, ancestral Iceland, 
Chanted staves of these old ballads 
To the Vikings. 

Once in Elsinore, 
At the court of old King Hamlet, 
Yorick and his boon companions 
Sang these ditties. 

Once Prince Frederick's Guard 
Sang them in their smoky barracks ; — 
Suddenly the English cannon 
Joined the chorus ! 

Peasants in the field, 
Sailors on the roaring ocean. 
Students, tradesmen, pale mechanics. 
All have sung them. 

Thou hast been their friend ; 
They, alas ! have left thee friendless ! 
Yet at least by one warm fireside 
Art thou welcome. 

And, as swallows build 
In these wide, old-fashioned chimneys, 
So thy twittering songs shall nestle 
In my bosom, — 



IMaltcr von Der lDoGcl\vcit)e. 



273 



Quiet, close, and warm, 
Sheltered from all molestation, 
And recallinj^ by their voices 
Youth and travel. 



WALTER VON DER VOGELWEIDE. 



VOGELWEID the Minnesinger, 
When he left this world of ours, 

Laid his body in the cloister. 
Under Wiirtzburg's minster towers. 

And he g-ave the monks his treasures, 
Gave them all with this behest : 

They should feed the birds at noontide 
Daily on his place of rest ; 

Saying, " From these wandering 
minstrels 
I have learned the art of song ; 
Let me now repay the lessons 
They have taught so well and 
long." 

Thus the bard of love departed ; 

And, fulfilling his desire. 
On his tomb the birds were 
feasted 

liy the children of the choir. 

Day by day, o'er tower and turret, 
In foul weather and in fair, 

Day by day, in vaster numbers, 
r locked the poets of the air. 



On the tree whose heavy branches 
Overshadowed all the place. 

On the pavement, on the tomb- 
stone. 
On the poet's sculptured face. 




" o'er tower and Tl'RRET 
FLOCKED THE POETS OF THE AIK." 



On the cross-bars of each window. 
On the lintel of each door. 

They renewed the War of Wartburg, 
Which the bard had fought before. 

18 



S'i'4 ^om6 auD Sonnets. 

There they sang their merry carols, 
Sang their lauds on every side ; 

And the name their voices uttered 
Was the name of Vogelweid, 

Till at length the portly abbot 

Murmured, " Why this waste of food ? 

Be it changed to loaves henceforward 
For our fasting brotherhood." 

Then in vain o'er tower and turret. 
From the walls and woodland nests, 

When the minister bells rang noontide, 
Gathered the unwelcome guests. 

Then in vain, with cries discordant. 

Clamorous round the Gothic spire, 
Screamed the feathered Minnesingers 

For the children of the choir. 

Time has long effaced the inscriptions 
On the cloister's funeral stones, 

And tradition only tells us 

Where repose the poet's bones. 

But around the vast cathedral. 
By sweet echoes multiplied. 

Still the birds repeat the legend, 
And the name of Vogelweid. 



DRINKING SONG. 

INSCRIPTION FOR AN ANTIQUE PITCHER. 

Come, old friend ! sit down and listen ! 

From the pitcher, placed between us. 
How the waters laugh and glisten 

In the head of old Silenus ! 

Old Silenus, bloated, drunken. 

Led by his inebriate Satyrs ; 
On his breast his head is sunken. 

Vacantly he leers and chatters. 



2)uinhin(? Bom, ^"^^ 

Fauns with youthful Bacchus follow ; 

Ivy crowns that brow supernal 
As the forehead of Apollo, 

And possessnig- youth eternal. 

Round about him, fair Bacchantes, 

Bearing- cymbals, flutes, and thyrses, 
Wild from Naxian groves, or Zante's 

Vineyards, sing delirious verses. 

Thus he won, through all the nations, 

Bloodless victories, and the farmer 
Bore, as trophies and oblations, 

Vines for banners, ploughs for armor. 

Judged by no o'erzealous rigor. 

Much this mystic throng expresses : 
Bacchus was the type of vigor, 

And Silenus of excesses. 

These are ancient ethnic revels, 

Of a faith long since forsaken ; 
Now the Satyrs, changed to devils. 

Frighten mortals wine-o'ertaken. 

Now to rivulets from the mountains 

Point the rods of fortune-tellers ; 
Youth perpetual dwells in fountains, — 

Not in flasks, and casks, and cellars. 

Claudius, though he sang of flagons 
And huge tankards fllled with Rhenish, 

From that fiery blood of dragons 
Never would his own replenish. 

Even Redi, though he chaunted 

Bacchus in the Tuscan valleys. 
Never drank the wine he vaunted 

In his dithyrambic sallies. 

Then with water fill the pitcher 

Wreathed about with classic fables ; 
Ne'er Falernian threw a richer 

Light upon Lucullus' tables. 

Come, old friend, sit down and listen ! 

As it passes thus between us. 
How its wavelets laugh and glisten 

In the head of old Silenus ! 



270 Songs anCt Sonnets. 



THE OLD CLOCK ON THE STAIRS. 

L'eternite est une pendule, dont le balancier dit et redit sans cesse ces 
deux mots seulement, dans le silence des tombeaux : " Toujours ! ja- 
mais ! Jamais ! toujours ! " 

JACQUKS BUIDAINB. 

Somewhat back from the village street 

Stands the old-fashioned countr)'-seat. 

Across its antique portico 

Tall poplar-trees their shadows throw ; 

And from its station in the hall 

An ancient timepiece says to all, — 

" Forever — never ! 

Never — forever ! " 

Half-way up the stairs it stands, 

And points and beckons with its hands 

From its case of massive oak, 

Like a monk, who, under his cloak. 

Crosses himself, and sighs, alas ! 

With sorrowful voice to all who pass, — 

" Forever — never ! 

Never — forever ! " 

By day its voice is low and light ; 

But in the silent dead of night, 

Distinct as a passing footstep's fall, 

It echoes along the vacant hall. 

Along the ceiling, along the floor. 

And seems to say, at each chamber-door, — 

" Forever — never ! 

Never — forever ! " 

Through days of sorrow and of mirth. 
Through days of death and days of birth. 
Through every swift vicissitude 
Of changeful time, unchanged it has stood, 
And as if, like God, it all things saw. 
It calmly repeats those words of awe, — 

" Forever — never ! 

Never — forever ! " 

In that mansion used to be 
Free-hearted Hospitality ; 
His great fires up the chimney roared ; 
The stranger feasted at his board ; 



^be Brrovv anD tbe Song. 277 

But, like the skeleton at the feast, 
That warning timepiece never ceased, — 

" Forever — never ! 

Never — forever ! " 

There groups of merry children played, 

There youths and maidens dreaming strayed ; 

O precious hours ! O golden prime. 

And affluence of love and time ! 

Even as a miser counts his gold, 

Those hours the ancient timepiece told, — 

" Forever — never ! 

Never — forever ! " 

From that chamber, clothed in white, 
The bride came forth on her wedding night ; 
There, in that silent room below. 
The deaci lay in his shroud of snow ; 
And in the hush that followed the prayer, 
Was heard the old clock on the stair, — 

" Forever — never ! 

Never — forever ! " 

All are scattered now and fled, 
Some are married, some are dead ; 
And when I ask, with throbs of pain, 
" Ah ! when shall they all meet again? " 
As in the days long since gone by. 
The ancient timepiece makes reply, — 

" Forever — never ! 

Never — forever ! " 

Never here, forever there. 
Where all parting, pain, and care. 
And death, and time shall disappear, — 
Forever there, but never here ! 
The horologe of Eternity 
Sayeth this incessantly, — 

" Forever — never ! 

Never — forever ! " 



THE ARROW AND THE SONG. 

I SHOT an arrow into the air, 
It fell to earth, I knew not where ; 
For, so swiftly it flew, the sight 
Could not follow it in its flight. 



278 Songs anD Sonnets. 

I breathed a song into the air, 
It fell to earth, I knew not where ; 
For who has sight so keen and strong. 
That it can follow the flight of song ? 

Long, long afterward, in an oak 
I found the arrow, still unbroke ; 
And the song, from beginning to end, 
I found again in the heart of a friend. 



SONNETS. 




y 






■%i 



AUTUMN. 

Thou comest, Autumn, heralded by the rain, 
With banners, by great gales incessant fanned, 
Brighter than brightest silks of Samarcand, 
And stately oxen harnessed to thy wain ! 

Thou standest, like imperial Charlemagne, 
Upon thy bridge of gold ; thy royal hand 
Outstretched with benedictions o'er the land. 
Blessing the farms through all thy vast domain ! 

Thy shielcl is the red harvest moon, suspended 
So long beneath the heaven's o'er-hanging eaves; 
Thy steps are by the farmer's prayers attended ; 

Like flames upon an altar shine the sheaves ; 
And, following thee, in thy ovation splendid. 
Thine almoner, the wind, scatters the golden leaves ! 



Dante. 279 



THE EVENING STAR. 

Lo ! in the painted oriel of the West, 

Whose panes the sunken sun incarnadines, 
Like a fair lady at her casement, shines 
The evening star, the star of love and rest ! 

And then anon she doth herself divest 
Of all her radiant garments, and reclines 
Behind the sombre screen of yonder pines, 
With slumber and soft dreams of love oppressed. 

O my beloved, my sweet Hesperus ! 

My morning and my evening star of love ! 
My best and gentlest lady ! even thus. 

As that fair planet in the sky above. 
Dost thou retire unto thy rest at night, 
And from thy darkened window fades the light. 



DANTE. 

Tuscan, that wanderest through the realms of gloom, 
With thoughtful pace, and sad, majestic eyes. 
Stern thoughts and awful from thy soul arise, 
Like Farinata from his fiery tomb. 

Thy sacred song is like the trump of doom ; 
Yet in thy heart what human sympathies. 
What soft compassion glows, as in the skies 
The tender stars their clouded lamps relume ! 

Methinks I see thee stand, with pallid cheeks. 
By Fra Hilario in his diocese. 
As up the convent-walls, in golden streaks. 

The ascending sunbeams mark the day's decrease; 
And, as he asks what there the stranger seeks. 
Thy voice along the cloister whispers, " Peace I " 



280 ^vanslations. 



TRANSLATIONS. 

THE HEMLOCK TREE. 

FROxAI THE GERMAN. 

O HEMLOCK tree! O hemlock tree! how faithful are thy 
branches ! 

Green not alone in summer time, 

But in the winter's frost and rime ! 
O hemlock tree ! O hemlock tree ! how faithful are thy branches ! 

O maiden fair ! O maiden fair ! how faithless is thy bosom ! 

To love me in prosperity, 

And leave me in adversity ! 
O maiden fair ! O maiden fair ! how faithless is thy bosom ! 

The nightingale, the nightingale, thou tak'st for thine example ! 

So long as summer laughs she sings, 

But in the autumn spreads her wings. 
The nightingale, the nightingale, thou tak'st for thine example ! 

The meadow brook, the meadow brook, is mirror of thy false- 
hood ! 
It flows so long as falls the rain, 
In drought its springs soon dry again. 
The meadow brook, the meadow brook, is mirror of thy false- 
hood ! 



ANNIE OF THARAW. 

FROM THE LOW GERI\L4N OF SIMON DACH. 

Annie of Tharaw, my true love of old. 
She is my life, and my goods, and my gold. 

Annie of Tharaw, her heart once again 
To me has surrendered in joy and in pain. 

Annie of Tharaw, my riches, my good, 
Thou, O my soul, my flesh, and my blood ! 

Then come the wild weather, come sleet or come snow. 
We will stand by each other, however it blow. 



^be Statue ©ver tbc CatbcDral 5)oor. 381 

Oppression, and sickness, and sorrow, and pain 
Shall be to our true love as links to the chain. 

As the palni-tree standeth so straight and so tall. 
The more the hail beats, and the more the rains fall, — 

So love in our hearts shall grow mighty and strong. 
Through crosses, through sorrows, through manifold wrong. 

Shouldst thou be torn from me to wander alone 

In a desolate land where the sun is scarce known, — 

Through forests I '11 follow, and where the sea flows, 
Through ice, and through iron, through armies of foes. 

Annie of Tharaw, my light and my sun, 

The threads of our two lives are woven in one. 

Whate'er I have bidden thee thou hast obeyed, 
Whatever forbidden thou hast not gainsaid. 

How in the turmoil of life can love stand. 

Where there is not one heart, and one mouth, and one hand ? 

Some seek for dissension, and trouble, and strife ; 
Like a dog and a cat live such man and wife. 

Annie of Tharaw, such is not our love ; 

Thou art my lambkin, my chick, and my dove. 

Whate'er my desire is, in thine may be seen ; 

I am king of the household, and thou art its queen. 

It is this, O my Annie, my heart's sweetest rest. 
That makes of us twain but one soul in one breast. 

This turns to a heaven the hut where we dwell ; 
While wrangling soon changes a home to a hell. 



THE STATUE OVER THE CATHEDRAL DOOR. 

FRO:\I THE GERMAN OF JULIUS MOSEN. 

Forms of saints and kings are standing 

The cathedral door above ; 
Yet I saw but one among them 

Who hath soothed my soul with love. 



283 translations. 

In his mantle, — wound about him, 
As their robes the sowers wind, — 

Bore he swallows and their fledglings, 
Flowers and weeds of every kind. 

And so stands he calm and childlike, 
High in wind and tempest wild ; 

O, were I like him exalted, 
I would be like him, a child ! 

And my songs, — green leaves and blossoms,- 
To the doors of heaven would bear, 

Calling even in storm and tempest. 
Round me still these birds of air. 



THE LEGEND OF THE CROSSBILL. 

FROM THE GERMAN OF JULIUS MOSEN. 

On the cross the dying Saviour 
Heavenward lifts his eyelids calm, 

Feels, but scarcely feels, a trembling 
In his pierced and bleeding palm. 

And by all the world forsaken, 
Sees he how with zealous care 

At the ruthless nail of iron 
A little bird is striving there. 

Stained with blood and never tiring. 
With its beak it doth not cease, 

From the cross 't would free the Saviour, 
Its Creator's Son release. 

And the Saviour speaks in mildness : 
" Blest be thou of all the good ! 

Bear, as token of this moment, 
Marks of blood and holy rood ! " 

And that bird is called the crossbill ; 

Covered all with blood so clear. 
In the groves of pine it singeth 

Songs, like legends, strange to hear. 



poetic Bpboriems. 383 

THE SEA HATH ITS PEARLS. 

FROM THE GERMAN OF HEINRICH HEINE. 

The sea hath its pearls, 

The heaven hath its stars ; 
But my heart, my heart, 

My heart hath its love. 

Great are the sea and the heaven ; 

Yet greater is my heart, 
And fairer than pearls and stars 

Flashes and beams my love. 

Thou little, youthful maiden. 

Come unto my great heart ; 
My heart, and the sea, and the heaven 

Are melting away with love ! 

POETIC APHORISMS. 

FROM THE SINNGEDICHTE OF FRIEDRICH VON LOGAU. 

SEVENTEENTH CENTURV. 

MONEY. 

Whereunto is money good.? 
Who has it not wants hardihood. 
Who has it has much trouble and care, 
Who once has had it has despair. 

THE BEST medicines. 

Joy and Temperance and Repose 
Slam the door on the doctor's nose. 

sin. 

Man-like is it to fall into sin. 
Fiend-like is it to dwell therein, 
Christ-like is it for sin to grieve, 
Ciod-like is it all sin to leave. 

poverty and blindness. 

A BLIND man is a poor man, and blind a poor man is • 
i^or the former seeth no man, and the latter no man sees. 



284 XTranslatfons, 



LAW OF LIFE. 



Live I, so live I, 
To my Lord heartily, 
To my Prince faithfully, 
To my Neighbor honestly. 
Die I, so die L 

CREEDS. 

Lutheran, Popish, Calvinistic, all these creeds and doctrines 

three 
Are extant ; but still the doubt is, where Christianity may be. 

THE RESTLESS HEART. 

A MILLSTONE and the human heart are driven ever round ; 
If they have nothing else to grind, they must themselves be 
ground. 

CHRISTIAN LOVE. 

Whilom Love was like a fire, and warmth and comfort it be- 
spoke ; 

But, alas ! it now is quenched, and only bites us, like the 
smoke. 

ART AND TACT. 

Intelligence and courtesy not always are combined ; 
Often in a wooden house a golden room we find. 

retribution. 

Though the mills of God grind slowly, yet they grind exceed- 
ing small ; 

Though with patience he stands waiting, with exactness grinds 
he all. 

TRUTH. 

When by night the frogs are croaking, kindle but a torch's fire, 
Ha! how soon they all are silent ! Thus Truth silences the liar I 

rhvmes. 

If perhaps these rhymes of mine should sound not well in stran- 
gers' ears. 

They have only to bethink them that it happens so with theirs ; 

For so long as words, like mortals, call a fatherland their own, 

They will be most highly valued where they are best and long- 
est known. 



Curfew. 



285 



CURFEW. 



I. 



Solemnly, mournfully, 
Dealing its dole, 

The Curfew Bell 
Is beginning to toll. 




"sleep and oblivion 
rkign over all !" 



Cover the embers, 

And put out the light ; 

Toil comes with the morning. 
And rest with the night. 



Dark grow the windows. 
And quenched is the fire ; 

Sound fades into silence, — 
All footsteps retire. 



286 



^vanslations. 



No voice in the chambers, 
No sound in the hall ! 

Sleep and oblivion 
Reign over all ! 



II. 

The book is completed, 
And closed, like the day ; 

And the hand that has written it 
Lays it away. 

Dim grow its fancies ; 

P^orgotten they lie ; 
Like coals in the ashes. 

They darken and die. 

Song sinks into silence, 

The story is told, 
The windows are darkened, 
- The hearth-stone is cold. 

Darker and darker 

The black shadows fall ; 

Sleep and oblivion 
Reign over all. 




Dedication. 287 



THE SEASIDE AND THE FIRESIDE. 



DEDICATION. 

As one who. walking- in the twiUght gloom, 
Hears round about him voices as it darkens, 

And seeing not the forms from which they come. 
Pauses from time to time, and turns and hearkens ; 

So walking here in twilight, O my friends ! 

I hear your voices, softened by the distance, 
And pause, and turn to listen, as each sends 

His words of friendship, comfort, and assistance. 

If any thought of mine, or sung or told. 

Has ever given delight or consolation, 
Ye have repaid me back a thousand-fold, 

By every friendly sign and salutation. 

Thanks for the sympathies that ye have shown ! 

Thanks for each kindly word, each silent token, 
That teaches me, when seeming most alone, 

Friends are around us, though no word be spoken. 

Kind messages, that pass from land to land ; 

Kind letters, that betray the heart's deep history, 
In which we feel the pressure of a hand, — 

One touch of fire, — and all the rest is mystery ! 

The pleasant books, that silently among 

Our household treasures take familiar places. 

And are to us as if a living tongue 

Spake from the printed leaves or pictured faces ! 

Perhaps on earth I never shall behold, 

With eye of sense, your outward form and semblance ; 
Therefore to me ye never will grow old. 

But live forever young in my remembrance. 



288 m>s tbc SeaeiOe. 

Never grow old, nor change, nor pass away ! 

Your gentle voices will flow on forever, 
When life grows bare and tarnished with decay. 

As through a leafless landscape flows a river. 

Not chance of birth or place has made us friends. 
Being oftentimes of different tongues and nations, 

But the endeavor for the selfsame ends, 

With the same hopes, and fears, and aspirations. 

Therefore I hope to join your seaside walk. 
Saddened, and mostly silent, with emotion ; 

Not interrupting with intrusive talk 

The grand, majestic symphonies of ocean. 

Therefore I hope, as no unwelcome guest, 

At your warm fireside, when the lamps are lighted. 

To have my place reserved among the rest, 
Nor stand as one unsought and uninvited ! 



BY THE SEASIDE. 

THE BUILDING OF THE SHIP. 

" Build me straight, O worthy Master ! 

Stanch and strong, a goodly vessel, 
That shall laugh at all disaster, 

And with wave and whirlwind wrestle ! " 

The merchant's word 

Delighted the Master heard ; 

For his heart was in his work, and the heart 

Giveth grace unto every Art. 

A quiet smile played round his lips. 

As the eddies and dimples of the tide 

Play round the bows of ships, 

That steadily at anchor ride. 

And with a voice that was full of glee, 

He answered, " Erelong we will launch 

A vessel as goodly, and strong, and stanch, 

As ever weathered a wintry sea ! " 

And first with nicest skill and art, 
Perfect and finished in every part, 



Zhc mnimm ot tbe Sbtp. 289 

A little model the Master wrought, 

Which should be to the larger plan 

What the child is to the man, 

Its counterpart in miniature ; 

That with a hand more swift and sure 

The greater labor might be brought 

To answer to his inward thought. 

And as he labored, his mind ran o'er 

The various ships that were built of yore, 

And above them all, and strangest of all' 

Towered the Great Harry, crank and tali, 

Whose picture was hanging on the wall, 

With bows and stern raised high in air. 

And balconies hanging here and there, 

And signal lanterns and flags afloat, 

And eight round towers, like those that frown 

From some old castle, looking down 

Upon the drawbridge and the moat. 

And he said with a smile, " Our ship, I wis, 

Shall be of another form than this ! " 

It was of another form, indeed ; 

Built for freight, and yet for speed, 

A beautiful and gallant craft ; 

Broad in the beam, that the stress of the blast. 

Pressing down upon sail and mast. 

Might not the sharp bows overwhelm ; 

Broad in the beam, but sloping aft 

With graceful curve and slow'degrees, 

That she might be docile to the helm, 

And that the currents of parted seas. 

Closing behind, with mighty force. 

Might aid and not impede her course. 

In the ship-yard stood the Master, 

With the model of the vessel, 
That should laugh at all disaster, 
• And with wave and whirlwind wrestle ! 

Covering many a rood of ground. 
Lay the timber piled around ; 
Timber of chestnut, and elm, and oak. 
And scattered here and there, with these, 
The knarred and crooked cedar knees ; 
Brought from regions far away. 
From I'ascagoula's sunny bay, 
•And the banks of the roaring Roanoke ! 
19 



290 JBg tbe SeasiDe. 

Ah ! what a wondrous thing- it is 

To note how many wheels of toil 

One thought, one word, can set in motion ! 

There's not a ship that sails the ocean, 

But every climate, every soil, 

Must bring its tribute, great or small, 

And help to build the wooden wall ! 

The sun was rising o'er the sea. 
And long the level shadows lay. 
As if they, too, the beams would be 
Of some great, airy argosy. 
Framed and launched in a single day. 
That silent architect, the sun. 
Had hewn and laid them every one. 
Ere the work of man was yet begun. 
Beside the Master, when he spoke, 
A youth, against an anchor leaning-. 
Listened, to catch his slightest meaning. 
Only the long waves, as they broke 
In ripples on the pebbly beach. 
Interrupted the old man's speech. 

Beautiful they were, in sooth, 

The old man and the fiery youth ! 

The old man, in whose busy brain 

Many a ship that sailed the main 

Was modelled o'er and o'er again ; — 

The fiery youth, who was to be 

The heir of his dexterity. 

The heir of his house, and his daughter's hand, 

When he had built and launched from land 

What the elder head had planned, 

" Thus," said he, " will we build this ship ! 

Lay square the blocks upon the slip. 

And follow well this plan of mine. 

Choose the timbers with greatest care ; 

Of all that is unsound beware ; 

For only what is sound and strong 

To this vessel shall belong. 

Cedar of Maine and Georgia pine 

Here together shall combine. 

A goodly frame, and a goodly fame. 

And the Union be her name! 

For the day that gives her to the sea 

Shall give my daughter unto thee ! " 



Zbc mxiWim ot tbe Sbip. 291 

The Master's word 

Enraptured the young^ man heard ; 

And as he turned his face aside, 

With a look of joy and a thrill of pride, 

Standing- before 

Her father's door. 

He saw the form of his promised bride. 

The sun shone on her golden hair. 

And her cheek was glowing fresh and fair, 

With the breath of morn and the soft sea air. 

Like a beauteous barge was she, 

Still at rest on the sandy beach, 

Just beyond the billow's reach ; 

But he 

Was the restless, seething, stormy sea ! 

Ah, how skilful grows the hand 
That obeyeth Love's command ! 
It is the heart, and not the brain. 
That to the highest doth attain, 
And he who followeth Love's behest 
Far exceedeth all the rest ! 

Thus with the rising of the sun 

Was the noble task begun, 

And soon throughout the ship-yard's bounds 

Were heard the intermingled sounds 

Of axes and of mallets, plied 

With vigorous arms on every side ; 

Plied so deftly and so well, 

That, ere the shadows of evening fell, 

The keel of oak for a noble ship, 

Scarfed and bolted, straight and strong, 

Was lying ready, and stretched along 

The blocks, well placed upon the slip. 

Happy, thrice happy, every one 

Who sees his labor well begun, 

And not perplexed and multiplied, 

By idly waiting for time and tide ! 

And when the hot, long day was o'er, 
The young man at the Master's door 
Sat with the maiden calm and still. 
And within the porch, a little more 
Removed beyond the evening- chill, 
The father sat, and told them tales 
Of wrecks in the great September gales, 



292 :©g tbe SeasiDe. 

Of pirates upon the Spanish Main, 

And ships that never came back again, 

The chance and change of a sailor's Hfe, 

Want and plenty, rest and strife, 

His roving fancy, like the wind, 

That nothing can stay and nothing can bind, 

And the magic charm of foreign lands, 

With shadows of palms, and shining sands, 

Where the tumbling surf. 

O'er the coral reefs of Madagascar, 

Washes the feet of the swarthy Lascar, 

As he lies alone and asleep on the turf. 

And the trembling maiden held her breath 

At the tales of that awful, pitiless sea, 

With all its terror and mystery. 

The dim, dark sea, so like unto Death, 

That divides and yet unites mankind ! 

And whenever the old man paused, a gleam 

From the bowl of his pipe would awhile illume 

The silent group in the twilight gloom, 

And thoughtful faces, as in a dream ; 

And for a moment one might mark 

What had been hidden by the dark. 

That the head of the maiden lay at rest, 

Tenderly, on the young man's breast ! 



Day by day the vessel grew, 

With timbers fashioned strong and true, 

Stemson and keelson and sternson-knee. 

Till, framed with perfect symmetry, 

A skeleton ship rose up to view ! 

And around the bows and along the side 

The heavy hammers and mallets plied, 

Till after many a week, at length, 

Wonderful for form and strength. 

Sublime in its enormous bulk. 

Loomed aloft the shadowy hulk I 

And around it columns of smoke, upwreathing. 

Rose from the boiling, bubbling, seething 

Caldron, that glowed. 

And overflowed 

With the black tar, heated for the sheathing. 

And amid the clamors 

Of clattering hammers. 

He who listened heard now and then 

The song of the Master and his men : — 



Zbe mxil^im ot tbc Sbip. 293 

" Build me straight, O worthy Master, 

Stanch and strong, a goodly vessel. 
That shall laugh at all disaster. 

And with wave and whirlwind wrestle ! " 

With oaken brace and copper band, 

Lay the rudder on the sand, 

That, like a thought, should have control 

Over the movement of the whole ; 

And near it the anchor, whose giant hand 

Would reach down and grapple with the land, 

And immovable and fast 

Hold the great ship against the bellowing blast ! 

And at the bows an image stood, 

By a cunning artist carved in wood. 

With robes of white, that far behind 

Seemed to be fluttering in the wind. 

It was not shaped in a classic mould, 

Not like a Nymph or Goddess of old, 

Or Naiad rising from the water, 

But modelled from the Master's daughter ! 

On many a dreary and misty night, 

'T will be seen by the rays of the signal light. 

Speeding along through the rain and the dark, 

Like a ghost in its snow-white sark, 

The pilot of some phantom bark. 

Guiding the vessel, in its flight. 

By a path none other knows aright ! 

Behold, at last. 

Each tall and tapering mast 

Is swung into its place ; 

Shrouds and stays 

Holding it firm and fast ! 

Long ago. 

In the deer-haunted forests of Maine, 

When upon mountain and plain 

Lay the snow. 

They fell, — those lordly pines ! 

Those grand, majestic pines ! 

'Mid shouts and cheers 

The jaded steers. 

Panting beneath the goad, 

Dragged down the weary, winding road 

Those captive kings so straight and tall. 

To be shorn of their streaming hair, 

And, naked and bare, 



294 J6v tbe Sea0iC»e. 

To feel the stress and the strain 

Of the wind and the reeHng main, 

Whose roar 

Would remind them forevermore 

Of their native forests they should not see again. 

And everywhere 

The slender, graceful spars 

Poise aloft in the air. 

And at the mast-head. 

White, blue, and red, 

A flag unrolls the stripes and stars. 

Ah ! when the wanderer, lonely, friendless, 

In foreign harbors shall behold 

That flag unrolled, 

'T will be as a friendly hand 

Stretched out from his native land, 

Filling his heart with memories sweet and endless ! 

All is finished ! and at length 

Has come the bridal day 

Of beauty and of strength. 

To-day the vessel shall be launched ! 

With fleecy clouds the sky is blanched. 

And o'er the bay, 

Slowly, in all his splendors dight, 

The great sun rises to behold the sight. 

The ocean old, 

Centuries old. 

Strong as youth, and as uncontrolled, 

Paces restless to and fro. 

Up and down the sands of gold. 

His beating heart is not at rest ; 

And far and wide. 

With ceaseless flow, 

His beard of snow 

Heaves with the heaving of his breast. 

He waits impatient for his bride. 

There she stands. 

With her foot upon the sands. 

Decked with flags and streamers gay. 

In honor of her marriage day. 

Her snow-white signals fluttering, blending, 

Round her like a veil descending. 

Ready to be 

The bride of the gray, old sea. 



^be :J8iulDincj of tbc Sbip. 295 

On the deck another bride 
Is standing- by her lover's side. 
Shadows from the flags and shrouds, 
Like the shadows cast by clouds, 
Broken by many a sunny fleck, 
Fall around them on the deck. 

The prayer is said, 

The service read. 

The joyous bridegroom bows his head ; 

And in tears the good old Master 

Shakes the brown hand of his son, 

Kisses his daughter's glowing cheek 

In silence, for he cannot speak. 

And ever faster 

Down his own the tears begin to run. 

The worthy pastor — 

The shepherd of that wandering flock, 

That has the ocean for its wold. 

That has the vessel for its fold, 

Leaping ever from rock .to rock — 

Spake, with accents mild and clear. 

Words of warning, words of cheer. 

But tedious to the bridegroom's ear. 

He knew the chart 

Of the sailor's heart. 

All its pleasures and its griefs. 

All its shallows and rocky reefs. 

All those secret currents, that flow 

With such resistless undertow. 

And lift and drift, with terrible force. 

The will from its moorings and its course. 

Therefore he spake, and thus said he : — 

" Like unto ships far off at sea. 

Outward or homeward bound, are wc. 

Before, behind, and all around. 

Floats and swings the horizon's bound. 

Seems at its outer rim to rise 

And climb the crystal wall of the skies, 

And then again to turn and sink. 

As if we could slide from its outer brink. 

Ah ! it is not the sea. 

It is not the sea that sinks and shelves. 

But ourselves 

That rock and rise 

With endless and uneasy motion, 

Now touching the very skies. 



296 m^ tbe Seaside. 

Now sinking into the depths of ocean. 

Ah ! if our souls but poise and swing 

Like the compass in its brazen ring, 

Ever level and ever true 

To the toil and the task we have to do, 

We shall sail securely, and safely reach 

The Fortunate Isles, on whose shining beach 

The sights we see, and the sounds we hear, 

Will be those of joy and not of fear ! " 

Then the Master, 

With a gesture of command, 

Waved his hand ; 

And at the word, 

Loud and sudden there was heard. 

All around them and below, 

The sound of hammers, blow on blow, 

Knocking away the shores and spurs. 

And see ! she stirs ! 

She starts, — she moves, — she seems to feel 

The thrill of life along her keel. 

And, spurning with her foot the ground. 

With one exulting, joyous bound. 

She leaps into the ocean's arms ! 

And lo ! from the assembled crov;d 

There rose a shout, prolonged and loud, 

That to the ocean seemed to say, 

" Take her, O bridegroom, old and gray, 

Take her to thy protecting arms. 

With all her youth and all her charms ! " 

How beautiful she is ! How fair 

She lies within those arms, that press 

Her form with many a soft caress 

Of tenderness and watchful care ! 

Sail forth into the sea, O ship ! 

Through wind and wave, right onward steer ! 

The moistened eye, the trembling lip. 

Are not the signs of doubt or fear. 

Sail forth into the sea of life, 
O gentle, loving, trusting wife. 
And safe from all adversity 
Upon the bosom of that sea 
Thy comings and thy goings be ! 



^be :evcnfnci star. 297 

For gentleness and lov'e and trust 
Prevail o'er angry wave and gust ; 
And in the wreck of noble lives 
Something immortal still survives ! 

Thou, too, sail on, O Ship of State ! 

Sail on, O Union, strong and great ! 

Humanity with all its fears. 

With all the hopes of future years, 

Is hanging breathless on thy fate ! 

We know what Master laid thy keel. 

What Workmen wrought thy ribs of steel, 

Who made each mast, and sail, and rope. 

What anvils rang, what hammers beat, 

In what a forge and what a heat 

Were shaped the anchors of thy hope ! 

Fear not each sudden sound and shock, 

'T is of the wave and not the rock ; 

'T is but the flapping of the sail. 

And not a rent made by the gale ! 

In spite of rock and tempest roar. 

In spite of false lights on the shore, 

Sail on, nor fear to breast the sea ! 

Our hearts, our hopes, are all with thee. 

Our hearts, our hopes, our prayers, our tears, 

Our faith triumphant o'er our fears. 

Are all with thee, — are all with thee ! 



THE EVENING STAR. 

Just above yon sandy bar. 

As the day grows fainter and dimmer, 
Lonely and lovely, a single star • 

Lights the air with a dusky glimmer. 

Into the ocean faint and far 

Falls the trail of its golden splendor, 
And the gleam of that single star 

Is ever refulgent, soft, and tender. 

Chrv'saor, rising out of the sea. 

Showed thus glorious and thus emulous, 
Leaving the arms of Callirrhoe, 

For ever tender, soft, and tremulous. 



298 m^ tbe Seaside. 

Thus o'er the ocean faint and far 

Trailed the gleam of his falchion brightly ; 

Is it a God, or is it a star 
That, entranced, I gaze on nightly ! 



THE SECRET OF THE SEA. 

Ah ! what pleasant visions haunt me 

As I gaze upon the sea ! 
All the old romantic legends, 

All my dreams, come back to' me. 

Sails of silk and ropes of sendal. 

Such as gleam in ancient lore ; 
And the singing of the sailors, 

And the answer from the shore ! 

Most of all, the Spanish ballad 

Haunts me oft, and tarries long. 
Of the noble Count Arnaldos 

And the sailor's mystic song. 

Like the long waves on a sea-beach, 

Where the sand as silver shines, 
With a soft, monotonous cadence. 

Flow its unrhymed lyric lines ; — 

Telling how the Count Arnaldos, 

With his hawk upon his hand. 
Saw a fair and stately galley, 

Steering onward to the land ; — 

How he heard the ancient helmsman 

Chant a song so wild and clear. 
That the sailing sea-bird slowly 

Poised upon the mast to hear. 

Till his soul was full of longing, 

And he cried, with impulse strong, — 

" Helmsman ! for the love of heaven. 
Teach me, too, that wondrous song ! " 

" Wouldst thou," — so the helmsman answered, 

" Learn the secret of the sea ? 
Only those who brave its dangers 

Comprehend its mystery ! " 



Q^wilic^bt. 299 



In each sail that skims the horizon, 
In each landward-blowing breeze, 

I behold that stately i^alley," 
Hear those mournful melodies ; 

Till my soul is full of longing 

For the secret of the sea. 
And the heart of the great ocean 

Sends a thrilling pulse through me. 




■THE TWILIGHT IS SAD AND CLOUDY. 



TWILIGHT. 

Thp: twilight is sad and cloudy, 
The wind blows wild and free, 

And like the wings of sea-birds 
Flash the white caps of the sea. 

But in the fisherman's cottage 
There shines a ruddier light. 

And a little face at the window 
Peers out into the night. 



300 M>s tbe Seaside, 

Close, close it is pressed to the window. 

As if those childish eyes 
Were looking into the darkness, 

To see some form arise. 

And a woman's waving shadow 

Is passing to and fro, 
Now rising to the ceiling, 

Now bowing and bending low. 

What tale do the roaring ocean, 

And the night-wind, bleak and wild, 

As they beat at the crazy casement. 
Tell to that little child ? 

And why do the roaring ocean. 

And the night-wind, wild and bleak, 

As they beat at the heart of the mother 
Drive the color from her cheek ? 



SLR HUMPHREY GILBERT. 

Southward with fleet of ice 

Sailed the corsair Death ; 
Wild and fast blew the blast. 

And the east-wind was his breath. 

His lordly ships of ice 

Glistened in the sun ; 
On each side, like pennons wide. 

Flashing crystal streamlets run. 

His sails of white sea-mist 

Dripped with silver rain ; 
But where he passed there were cast 

Leaden shadows o'er the main. 

Eastward from Campobello 
Sir Humphrey Gilbert sailed ; 

Three days or more seaward he bore, 
Then, alas ! the land-wind failed. 

Alas ! the land-wind failed. 
And ice-cold grew the night ; 

And nevermore, on sea or shore. 
Should Sir Humphrey see the light. 



XLbc Xfabtbousc. 301 

He sat upon the deck, 

The 13ook was in his hand ; 
" Do not fear ! Heaven is as near," 

He said, " by water as by land ! " 

In the first watch of the night, 

Without a signal's sound. 
Out of the sea, mysteriously. 

The fleet of Death rose all around. 

The moon and the evening star 

Were hanging in the shrouds ; 
Every mast, as it passed. 

Seemed to rake the passing clouds. 

They grappled with their prize, 

At midnight black and cold ! 
As of a rock was the shock ; 

Heavily the ground-swell rolled. 

Southward through day and dark, 
• They drift in close embrace, 
With mist and rain, to the Spanish Main ; 
Yet there seems no change of place. 

Southward, for ever southward. 

They drift through dark and day ; 
And like a dream, in the Gulf-Stream 

Sinking, vanish all away. 



THE LIGHTHOUSE. 

The rocky ledge runs far into the sea. 
And on its outer point, some miles away, 

The Lighthouse lifts its massive masonry, 
A pillar of fire by night, of cloud by day. 

Even at this distance I can see the tides. 
Upheaving, break unheard along its base, 

A speechless wrath, that rises and subsides 
In the white lip and tremor of the face. 

And as the evening darkens, lo ! how bright, 
Through the deep purple of the twilight air. 

Beams forth the sudden radiance of its light 
With strange, unearthly splendor in its glare ! 



303 :fi5^ tbe Seaside. 

Not one alone ; from each projecting cape 
And perilous reef along the ocean's verge, 

Starts into life a dim, gigantic shape, 

Holding its lantern o'er the restless surge. 

Like the great giant Christopher it stands 
Upon the brink of the tempestuous wave, 

Wading far out among the rocks and sands, 
The night-o'ertaken mariner to save. 

And the great ships sail outward and return, 
Bending and bowing o'er the billowy swells. 

And ever joyful, as they see it burn, 

They wave their silent welcomes and farewells. 

They come forth from the darkness, and their sails 
Gleam for a moment only in the blaze, 

And eager faces, as the light unveils. 

Gaze at the tower, and vanish while they gaze. 

The mariner remembers \\hen a child. 

On his first voyage, he saw it fade and sink ; 

And when, returning from adventures wild, 
He saw it rise again o'er ocean's brink. 

Steadfast, serene, immovable, the same 
Year after year, through all the silent night 

Burns on for evermore that quenchless flame, 
Shines on that inextinguishable light ! 

It sees the ocean to its bosom clasp 

The rocks and sea-sand with the kiss of peace ; 

It sees the wild winds lift it in their grasp. 
And hold it up, and shake it like a fleece. 

The startled weaves leap over it ; the storm 
Smites it with all the scourges of the rain. 

And steadily against its solid form 

Press the great shoulders of the hurricane. 

The sea-bird wheeling round it, with the din 
Of wings and winds and solitary cries. 

Blinded and maddened by the light within. 
Dashes himself against the glare, and dies. 

A new Prometheus, chained upon the rock. 
Still grasping in his hand the fire of Jove, 

It does not hear the cry, nor heed the shock, 
But hails the mariner with words of love. 



Zbc jfivc ot H)ritt*1imooD. 308 

" Sail on ! " it says, " sail on, ye stately ships ! 

And with your floating bridge the ocean span ; 
Be mine to guard this light from all eclipse, 

Be yours to bring man nearer unto man ! " 



THE 'FIRE OF DRIFT-WOOD. 

We sat within the farm-house old, 
Whose windows, looking o'er the bay, 

Gave to the sea-breeze, damp and cold, 
An easy entrance, night and day. 

Not far away we saw the port, 

The strange, old-fashioned, silent town, 

The lighthouse, — the dismantled fort, — 
The wooden houses, quaint and brown. 

We sat and talked until the night. 
Descending, filled the little room ; 

Our faces faded from the sight. 
Our voices only broke the gloom. 

We spake of many a vanished scene. 
Of what we once had thought and said. 

Of what had been, and might have been, 
And who was changed, and who was dead ; 

And all that fills the hearts of friends. 
When first they feel, with secret pain, 

Their lives thenceforth have separate ends, 
And never can be one again ; 

The first slight swerving of the heart. 
That words are powerless to express, 

And leave it still unsaid in part. 
Or say it in too great excess. 

The very tones in which we spake 

Had something strange, I could but mark ; 

The leaves of memory seemed to make 
A mournful rustling in the dark. 

Oft died the words upon our lips. 

As suddenly, from out the fire 
Built of the wreck of stranded ships. 

The fiames would leap and then expire. 



304 M^ tbe ^iresi^e. 

And, as theif splendor flashed and failed, 
We thought of wrecks upon the main, 

Of ships dismasted, that were hailed 
And sent no answer back again. 

The windows, rattling in their frames, 
The ocean, roaring up the beach, 

The gusty blast, — the bickering flames, — 
All mingled vaguely in our speech ; 

Until they made themselves a part 
Of fancies floating through the brain, 

The long-lost ventures of the heart. 
That send no answers back again. 

O flames that glowed ! O hearts that yearned ! 

They were indeed too much akin, 
The drift-wood fire without that burned, 

The thoughts that burned and glowed within. 



BY THE FIRESIDE. 



RESIGNATION. 

There is no flock, however watched and tended, 

But one dead lamb is there ! 
There is no fireside, howsoe'er defended, 

But has one vacant chair ! 

The air is full of farewells to the dying, 

And mournings for the dead ; 
The heart of Rachel, for her children crying, 

Will not be comforted ! 

Let us be patient ! These severe afflictions 

Not from the ground arise, 
But oftentimes celestial benedictions 

Assume this dark disguise. 

We see but dimly through the mists and vapors ; 

Amid these earthly damps • 
What seem to us but sad, funereal tapers 

May be heaven's distant lamps. 

There is no Death ! What seems so is transition ; 
This life of mortal breath 



Is but a suburb of the life elysian, 
Whose portal we call Death. 

She is not dead, — the child of our affection, — 

But g-one unto that school 
Where she no lonj^er needs our poor protection, 

And Christ himself doth rule. 

In that great cloister's stillness and seclusion. 

By guardian angels led, 
Safe from temptation, safe from sin's pollution. 

She lives, whom we call dead. 

Day after day we think what she is doing 

In those bright realms of air; 
Year after year, her tender steps pursuing, 

Behold her grown more fair. 

Thus do we walk with her, and keep unbroken 

The bond wliich nature gives, 
Thinking that our remembrance, though unspoken, 

May reach her where she lives. 

Not as a child shall we again behold her ; 

For W'hen with raptures wuld 
In our embraces we again enfold her, 

She will not be a child ; 

But a fair maiden, in her Father's mansion. 

Clothed with celestial grace ; 
And beautiful with all the soul's expansion 

Shall v,-e behold her face. 

And though at times impetuous with emotion 

And anguish long suppressed, 
The swelling heart heaves moaning like the ocean, 

That cannot be at rest, — 

We will be patient, and assuage the feeling 

We may not wholly stay ; 
By silence sanctifying, not concealing, 

The grief that must have way. 



THE BUILDERS. 

All are architects of Fate, 

Working in these walls of Time ; 

Some with massive deeds and great, 
Some with ornaments of rhyme. 

20 



306 JSg tbe dfircsiOe, 

Nothing useless is, or low ; 

Each thing in its place is best ; 
And what seems but idle show 

Strengthens and supports the rest. 

For the structure that we raise, 
Time is with materials filled ; 

Our to-days and yesterdays 

Are the blocks with which we build. 

Truly shape and fashion these ; 

Leave no yawning gaps between ; 
Think not, because no man sees, 

Such things will remain unseen. 

In the elder days of Art, 

Builders wrought with greatest care 
Each minute and unseen part ; 

For the Gods see everywhere. 

Let us do our work as well. 
Both the unseen and the seen ; 

Make the house, w^here Gods may dwell,' 
Beautiful, entire, and clean. 

Else our lives are incomplete. 
Standing in these walls of Time, 

Broken stairways, where the feet 
Stumble as they seek to climb. 

Build to-day, then, strong and sure, 
With a firm and ample base ; 

And ascending and secure 
Shall to-morrow find its place. 

Thus alone can we attain 

To those turrets, where the eye 

Sees the world as one vast plain. 
And one boundless reach of sky. 



SAND OF THE DESERT IN AN HOUR-GLASS. 

A HANDFUL of red sand, from the hot clime 

Of Arab deserts brought. 
Within this glass becomes the spy of Time, 

The minister of Thought. 



SanD of tbe ©csevt in an 1bour=(5la60. 307 

How many weary centuries has it been 

About those deserts blown ! 
How many strange vicissitudes has seen, 

How many histories known ! 

Perhaps the camels of the Ishmaelite 

Trampled and passed it o'er, 
When into Egypt from the patriarch's sight 

His favorite son they bore. 

Perhaps the feet of Moses, burnt and bare. 

Crushed it beneath their tread ; 
Or Pharaoh's Hashing wheels into the air 

Scattered it as they sped ; 




" A HANDFUL OF RED SAND, FROM THE HOT CLIME 
OF ARAB DESERTS BROUGHT." 

Or Mary, with the Christ of Nazareth 

Held close in her caress, 
Whose pilgrimage of hope and love and faith 

Illumed the wilderness ; 

Or anchorites beneath Engaddi's palms 

Pacing the Dead Sea beach. 
And singing slow their old Armenian psalms 

In half-articulate speech; 

Or caravans, that from Bassora's gate 

With westward steps depart ; 
Or Mecca's pilgrims, confident of Fate, 

And resolute in heart ! 

These have passed over it, or may have passed ! 
Now in this crystal tower 



308 3Bg tbe 3fircsfDe, 

Imprisoned by some curious hand at last, 
It counts the passing hour. 

And as I gaze, these narrow walls expand 

Before my dreamy eye 
Stretches the desert with its shifting sand. 

Its unimpeded sky. 

And borne aloft by the sustaining blast, 
This little golden thread 

Dilates into a column high and vast, 
A form of fear and dread. 

And onward, and across the setting sun. 
Across the boundless plain. 

The column and its broader shadow run. 
Till thought pursues in vain. 

The vision vanishes ! These walls again 

Shut out the lurid sun. 
Shut out the hot, immeasurable plain ; 

The half-hour's sand is run ! 



BIRDS OF PASSAGE. 

Black shadows fall 
From the lindens tall. 
That lift aloft their massive wall 
Against the southern sky ; 

And from the realms 
Of the shadowy elms 
A tide-like darkness overwhelms 
The fields that round us lie. 

But the night is fair. 
And everywhere 
A warm, soft vapor fills the air. 
And distant sounds seem near ; 

And above, in the light 
Of the star-lit night. 
Swift birds of passage wing their flight 
Through the dewy atmosphere. 



ZTbe ©pen MinDow. 309 

I hear the beat 
Of their pinions fleet, 
As from the land of snow and sleet 
They seek a southern lea. 

I hear the cry 
Of their voices hi^^h 
Falling; dreamily throu_q-h the sky, 
But their forms 1 cannot see. 

O, say not so ! 
Those sounds that flow- 
In murmurs of delight and woe 
Come not from wings of birds. 

They are the throngs 
Of the poet's songs. 

Murmurs of pleasures, and pains, and wrongs, 
The sound of winged words. 

This is the cry 
Of souls, that high 
On toiling, beating pinions, fly. 
Seeking a warmer clime. 

From their distant flight 
Through realms of light 
It falls into our world of night, 

With the murmuring sound of rhyme. 



THE OPEN WINDOW. 

The old house by the lindens 
Stood silent in the shade, 

And on the gravelled pathway 
The light and shadow played. 

I saw the nursery windows 

Wide open to the air ; 
But the faces of the children. 

They were no longer there. 

The large Newfoundland house-dog 
Was standing by the door ; 

He looked for his little playmates, 
Who would return no more, 



310 :©g tbe jfiresiDe. 

They walked not under the Hndens, 
They played not in the hall ; 

But shadow, and silence, and sadness 
Were hanging over all. 

The birds sang in the branches, 
With sweet, familiar tone ; 

But the voices of the children 
Will be heard in dreams alone ! 

And the boy that walked beside me, 
He could not understand 

W^hy closer in mine, ah ! closer, 
1 pressed his warm, soft hand ! 



KING WITLAF'S DRINKING-HORN. 

WiTLAF, a king of the Saxons, 
Ere yet his last he breathed. 

To the merry monks of Croyland 
His. drinking-horn bequeathed, — 

That, whenever they sat at their revels, 
And drank from the golden bowl. 

They might remember the donor, 
And breathe a prayer for his soul. 

So sat they once at Christmas, 

And bade the goblet pass ; 
In their beards the red wine glistened 

Like dew-drops in the grass. 

They drank to the soul of Witlaf, 
They drank to Christ the Lord, 

And to each of the Twelve Apostles, 
Who had preached his holy word. 

They drank to the Saints and ]\Iartyrs 

Of the dismal days of yore, 
And as soon as the horn was empty 

They remembered one Saint more. 

And the reader droned from the pulpit, 
Like the murmur of many bees, 

The legend of good Saint Guthlac, 
And Saint Basil's homilies ; 



(Baspar :fi3ecerra» 3il 

Till the great bells of the convent, 

From their prison in the tower, 
Guthlac and Bartholoma^us, 

Proclaimed the midnight hour. 

And the Yule-log cracked in the chimney. 

And the Abbot bowed his head, 
And the flamelets flapped and flickered. 

But the Abbot was stark and dead. 

Yet still in his pallid fingers 

He clutched the golden bowl, 
In which, like a pearl dissolving, 

Had sunk and dissolved his soul. 

But not for this their revels 

The jovial monks forbore, 
For they cried, " Fill high the goblet ! 

We must drink to one Saint more ! " 



CASPAR BECERRA. 

By his evening fire the artist 
Pondered o'er his secret shame ; 

Baffled, weary, and disheartened. 
Still he mused, and dreamed of fame. 

'T was an image of the Virgin 
That had tasked his utmost skill ; 

But, alas ! his fair ideal 

Vanished and escaped him still. 

From a distant Eastern island 

Had the precious wood been brought, 

Day and night the anxious master 
At his toil untiring wrought ; 

Till, discouraged and desponding, 
Sat he now in shadows deep, 

And the day's humiliation 
Found oblivion in sleep. 

Then a voice cried, " Rise, O Master ! 

From the burning brand of oak 
Shape the thought that stirs within thee ! 

And the startled artist woke, — 



313 M^ tbe JFiresiDe. 

Woke, and from the smoking embers 
Seized and quenched the glowing wood 

And therefrom he carved an image, 
And he saw that it was good. 

O thou sculptor, painter, poet ! 

Take this lesson to thy heart : 
That is best which lieth nearest ; 

Shape from that thy work of art. 



PEGASUS IN POUND. 

Once into a quiet village. 

Without haste and without heed, 

In the golden prime of morning, 
Strayed the poet's winged steed. 

It was Autumn, and incessant 

Piped the quails from shocks and sheaves 
And, like living coals, the apples 

Burned among the withering leaves. 

Loud the clamorous bell was ringing 
From its belfry gaunt and grim ; 

'T was the daily call to labor, 
Not a triumph meant for him. 

Not the less he saw the landscape, 

In its gleaming vapor veiled ; 
Not the less he breathed the odors 

That the dying leaves exhaled. 

Thus, upon the village common. 
By the school-boys he was found ; 

And the wise men, in their wisdom, 
Put him straightway into pound. 

Then the sombre village crier. 

Ringing loud his brazen bell, 
Wandered down the street proclaiming 

There was an estray to sell. 

And the curious country people, 
Rich and poor, and 3'oung and old, 

Came in haste to see this wondrous 
Winged steed, with mane of gold. 



XLcQn6f0 H>eatb. 313 

Thus the day passed, and the evening 

Fell, with vapors cold and dim ; 
But it brought no food nor shelter, 

Brought no straw nor stall, for him. 

Patiently, and still expectant, 

Looked he through the wooden bars. 

Saw the moon rise o'er the landscape, 
Saw the tranquil, patient stars ; 

Till at length the bell at midnight 

Sounded from its dark abode. 
And, from out a neighboring farm-yard 

Loud the cock Alectryon crowed. 

Then, with nostrils wide distended, 

Breaking from his iron chain, 
And unfolding far his pinions. 

To those stars he soared again. 

On the morrow, when the village 

Woke to all its toil and care, 
Lo ! the strange steed had departed, 

And they knew not when nor where. 

But they found, upon the greensward 
Where his struggling hoofs had trod, 

Pure and bright, a fountain flowing 
From the hoof-marks in the sod. 

From that hour, the fount unfailing 

Gladdens the whole region round. 
Strengthening all who drink its waters. 

While it soothes them with its sound. 



TEGNER'S DEATH. 

I HEARD a voice, that cried, 

" Balder the Beautiful 

Is dead, is dead ! " 

And through the misty air 

Passed like the mournful cry 

Of sunward sailing cranes. 



314 :Bv the 3fire6iDe. 

I saw the pallid corpse 

Of the dead sun 

Borne through the Northern sky. 

Blasts from Niffelheim 

Lifted the sheeted mists 

Around him as he passed. 

And the voice forever cried, 
" Balder the Beautiful 
Is dead, is dead ! " 
And died away 
Through the dreary night, 
In accents of despair. 

Balder the Beautiful, 
God of the summer sun, 
Fairest of all the Gods ! 
Light from his forehead beamed, 
Runes were upon his tongue, 
As on the warrior's sword. 

All things in earth and air 
Bound were by magic spell 
Never to do him harm ; 
Even the plants and stones ; 
All save the mistletoe. 
The sacred mistletoe ! 

Hoeder, the blind old God, 
Whose feet are shod with silence. 
Pierced through that gentle breast 
With his sharp spear, by fraud 
Made of the mistletoe. 
The accursed mistletoe ! 

They laid him in his ship. 
With horse and harness. 
As on a funeral pyre. 
Odin placed 
A ring upon his finger, 
And whispered in his ear. 

They launched the burning ship ! 

It floated far away 

Over the misty sea. 

Till like the moon it seemed. 

Sinking beneath the waves. 

Balder returned no more ! 



Sonnet. 315 



So perish the old Gods ! 

But out of the sea of Time 

Rises a new land of song, 

Fairer than the old. 

Over its meadows green 

Walk the young bards and sing. 

Build it again, 

O ye bards, 

Fairer than before ! 

Ye fathers of the new race, 

Feed upon morning dew. 

Sing the new Song of Love ! 

The law of force is dead ! 
The law of love prevails ! 
Thor, the thunderer. 
Shall rule the earth no more, 
No more, with threats, 
Challenge the meek Christ. 

Sing no more, 
O ye bards of the North, 
Of Vikings and of Jarls ! 
Of the days of Eld 
Preserve the freedom only, 
Not the deeds of blood ! 



SONNET 

ON MRS. KEMBLE'S READINGS FROM SHAKESPEARE. 

O PRECIOUS evenings ! all too swiftly sped I 
Leaving us heirs to amplest heritages 
Of all the best thoughts of the greatest sages, 
And giving tongues unto the silent dead ! 

How our hearts glowed and trembled as she read. 
Interpreting by tones the wondrous pages 
Of the great poet who foreruns the ages, 
Anticipating all that shall be said ! 

O happy Reader ! having for thy text 

The magic book, whose Sibylline leaves have caught 
The rarest essence of all human thought ! 

O happy Poet ! by no critic vext ! 

How must thy listening spirit now rejoice 
To be interpreted by such a voice ! 



316 3B^ tbe 3fire0lDe. 




God sent his Singers upon earth 
With songs of sadness and of mirth, 
That they might touch the hearts of men. 
And bring them back to heaven again. 

The first, a youth, with soul of fire. 

Held in his hand a golden lyre ; 

Through groves he wandered, and by streams, 

Playing the music of our dreams. 

The second, with a bearded face. 
Stood singing in the market-place. 
And stirred with accents deep and loud 
The hearts of all the listening crowd. 

A gray old man, the third and last. 
Sang in cathedrals dim and vast. 
While the majestic organ rolled 
Contrition from its mouths of gold. 

And those who heard the Singers three 
Disputed which the best might be ; 
For still their music seemed to start 
Discordant echoes in each heart. 

But the great Master said, " I see 

No best in kind, but in degree ; 

I gave a various gift to each. 

To charm, to strengthen, and to teach. 



" These are the three great chords of might, 
And he whose ear is tuned aright 
Will hear no discord in the three, 
But the most perfect harmony." 



SUSPIRIA. 

Take them, O Death ! and bear away 
Whatever thou canst call thine own ! 

Thine image, stamped upon this clay, 
Doth give thee that, but that alone ! 

Take them, O Grave ! and let them lie 
Folded upon thy narrow shelves. 

As garments by the soul laid by. 
And precious only to ourselves ! 

Take them, O great Eternity ! 

Our little life is but a gust 
That bends the branches of thy tree, 

And trails its blossoms in the dust ! 



HYMN 

FOR MY brother's ORDINATION. 

Christ to the young man said : " Yet one 
thing more ; 

If thou wouldst perfect be. 
Sell all thou hast and give it to the poor, 

And come and follow me ! " 

Within this temple Christ again, unseen, 
Those sacred words hath said, 

And his invisible hands to-day have been 
Laid on a young man's head. 

And evermore beside him on his way 
The unseen Christ shall move, 

That he may lean upon his arm and say, 
" Dost thou, dear Lord, approve ? " 



318 m^ the mtC6it>C, 

Beside him at the marriage feast shall be, 
To make the scene more fair ; 

Beside him in the dark Gethsemane 
Of pain and midnight prayer. 

O holy trust ! O endless sense of rest ! 

Like the beloved John 
To lay his head upon the Saviour's breast, 



And thus to journey on 



THE BLIND GIRL OF CASTEL-CUILLE. 

FROM THE GASCON OF JASMIN. 



Only the Lowland tongue of Scotland might 
Rehearse this little tragedy aright ; 
Let me attempt it with an English quill ; 
And take, O Reader, for the deed the will. 



L 

At the foot of the mountain height 
Where is perched Castel-Cuille, 
When the apple, the plum, and the almond tree 
In the plain below were growing white. 
This is the song one might perceive 
On a Wednesday morn of Saint Joseph's Eve : 

" The roads should blossom, the roads should bloom, 

So fair a bride shall leave her home ! 

Should blossom and bloom with garlands gay. 

So fair a bride shall pass to-day ! " 

This old Te Deum, rustic rites attending. 
Seemed from the clouds descending ; 
When lo ! a merry company 
Of rosy village girls, clean as the eye. 

Each one with her attendant swain. 
Came to the cliff, all singing the same strain ; 
Resembling there, so near unto the sky. 
Rejoicing angels, that kind Heaven has sent 
For their delight and our encouragement. 



XLbc J6lint> (Biii of Ca9t«:UCuille. 319 

Together blendini^, 
And soon descending 
The narrow sweep 
Of the hillside steep, 
They wind aslant 
Towards Saint Amant, 
Throui^h leafy alleys 
Of verdurous valleys 
With merry sallies 
Singing their chant : 

" The roads should blossom, the roads should bloom, 

So fair a bride shall leave her home ! 

Should blossom and bloom with garlands gay, 

So fair a bride shall pass to-day ! " 

It is Baptiste, and his affianced maiden. 
With garlands for the bridal laden ! 

The sky was blue ; without one cloud of gloom. 

The sun of March was shining brightly, 
And to the air the freshening wind gave lightly 

Its breathings of perfume. 

When one beholds the dusky hedges blossom, 
A rustic bridal, ah ! how sweet it is ! 

To sounds of joyous melodies, 
That touch with tenderness the trembling bosom, 
A band of maidens 
Gayly frolicking, 
A band of youngsters 
Wildly rollicking ! 
Kissing, 
Caressing, 
With lingers pressing. 

Till in the veriest 
Madness of mirth, as they dance. 
They retreat and advance, 
Trying whose laugh shall be loudest and merriest ; 
WhiTe the bride, with roguish eyes, 
Sporting with them, now escapes and cries : 
" Those who catch me 
Married verilv 
This year shall be ! " 

And all pursue with eager haste. 
And all attain what they pursue. 



320 m>5 tbe afivesiDe. 

And touch her pretty apron fresh and new, 
And the Hnen kirtle round her waist. 

Meanwhile, whence comes it that among 
These youthful maidens fresh and fair, 
So joyous, with such laughing air, 

Baptiste stands sighing, with silent tongue ? 

And yet the bride is fair and young ! 
Is it Saint Joseph would say to us all. 
That love, o'er-hasty, precedeth a fall ? 

O no ! for a maiden frail, I trow, 

Never bore so lofty a brow ! 
What lovers ! they give not a single caress ! 
To see them so careless and cold to-day, 

These are grand people, one would say. 
What ails Baptiste ? what grief doth him oppress ? 

It is, that, half-way up the hill. 
In yon cottage, by whose walls 
Stand the cart-house and the stalls, 
Dwelleth the blind orphan still, 
Daughter of a veteran old ; 
And you must know, one year ago, 
That Margaret, the young and tender, 
Was the village pride and splendor. 
And Baptiste her lover bold. 
Love, the deceiver, them ensnared ; 
For them the altar was prepared ; 
But alas ! the summer's blight. 
The dread disease that none can stay, 
The pestilence that walks by night. 
Took the young bride's sight away. 

All at the father's stern command was changed ; 
Their peace was gone, but not their love estranged. 
Wearied at home, erelong the lover fled ; 

Returned but three short days ago, 

The golden chain they round him throw, 

He is enticed, and onward led 

To marry Angela, and yet 

Is thinking ever of Margaret. 

Then suddenly a maiden cried, 
" Anna, Theresa, Mary, Kate ! 
Here comes the cripple Jane ! " And by a fowitain's side 
A woman, bent and gray with years. 
Under the mulberry-trees appears, 



XLbc mint> (3irl of Castcl^Gudle. 32i 

And all towards her run, as fleet 
As had they wings upon their feet. 

It is that Jane, the cripple Jane, 

Is a soothsayer, wary and kind. 

She telleth fortunes, and none complain. 

She promises one a village swain, 

Another a happy wedding-day. 

And the bride a lovely boy straightway. 

All comes to pass as she avers ; 

She never deceives, she never errs. 

But for this once the village seer 

Wears a countenance severe. 
And from beneath her eyebrows thin and white 

Her two eyes flash like cannons bright 

Aimed at the bridegroom in waistcoat blue, 

Who, like a statue, stands in view ; 

Changing color, as well he might, 

When the beldame wrinkled and gray 

Takes the young bride by the hand, 

And, with the tip of her reedy wand 

Making the sign of the cross, doth say : — 

" Thoughtless Angela, beware ! 

Lest, when thou weddest this false bridegroom. 

Thou diggest for thyself a tomb ! " 
And she was silent ; and the maidens fair 
Saw from each eye escape a swollen tear ; 
But on a )ittle streamlet silver-clear. 

What are two drops of turbid rain ? 

Saddened a moment, the bridal train 

Resumed the dance and song again ; 
The bridegroom only w^as pale with fear ; — 
And down green alleys 
Of verdurous valleys, 
With merry sallies. 
They sang the refrain : — 

" The roads should blossom, the roads should bloom, 

So fair a bride shall leave her home ! 

Should blossom and bloom with garlands gay, 

So fair a bride shall pass to-day ! " 

II. 

And by suffering worn and weary. 
But beautiful as some fair angel yet. 
Thus lamented Margaret, 
In her cottage lone and dreary :— 

21 



322 3BS tbe afivesiOe. 

" He has arrived ! arrived at last ! 
Yet Jane has named him not these three days past ; 
Arrived ! yet keeps aloof so far ! 
And knows that of my night he is the star ! 
Knows that long months I wait alone, benighted, 
And count the moments since he went away ! 
Come ! keep the promise of that happier day. 
That I may keep the faith to thee I plighted ! 
What joy have I without thee ? what delight ? 
Grief wastes my life, and makes it misery ; 
Day for the others ever, but for me 

For ever night ! for ever night ! 
When he is gone 'tis dark ! my soul is sad ! 
I suffer ! O my God ! come, make me glad. 
When he is near, no thoughts of day intrude ; 
Day has blue heavens, but Baptiste has blue eyes ! 
Within them shines for me a heaven of love, 
A heaven all happiness, like that above, 

No more of grief ! no more of lassitude ! 
Earth I forget, — and heaven, and all distresses, 
When seated by my side my hand he presses ; 

But when alone, remember all ! 
Where is Baptiste ? he hears not when I call ! 
A branch of ivy, dying on the ground, 
I need some bough to twine around ! 
In pity come ! be to my suffering kind ! 
True love, they say, in grief doth more abound ! 

What then — when one is blind ? 

" Who knows ? perhaps I am forsaken ! 
Ah ! woe is me ! then bear me to my grave ! 

O God ! what thoughts within me waken ! 
Away ! he will return ! I do but rave ! 

He will return ! I need not fear ! 

He swore it by our Saviour dear ; 

He could not come at his own will ; 

Is weary, or perhaps is ill ! 

Perhaps' his heart, in this disguise. 

Prepares for me some sweet surprise ! 
But some one comes ! Though blind, my heart can see ! 
And that deceives me not ! 't is he ! 't is he ! " 

And the door ajar is set, 

And poor, confiding Margaret 
Rises, with outstretched arms, but sightless eyes ; 
'T is only Paul, her brother, who thus cries : — 



^be :fi3linD (3iii ot Cast^lsGuiU^. 323 

" Angela the bride has passed ! 
I saw the wedding guests go by ; 
Tell me, my sister, why were we not asked ? 
For all are there but you and I ! " 

" Angela married ! and not send 

To tell her secret unto me ! 

O, speak ! who may the bridegroom be ? " 

" My sister, 't is Baptiste, thy friend ! " 

A cry the blind girl gave, but nothing said ; 
A milky whiteness spreads upon her cheeks ; 

An icy hand, as heavy as lead. 

Descending, as her brother speaks. 

Upon her heart, that has ceased to beat, 

Suspends awhile its life and heat. 
She stands beside the boy, now sore distressed, 
A wax Madonna as a peasant dressed. 

At length, the bridal song again 
Brings her back to her sorrow and pain. 

" Hark ! the joyous airs are ringing ! 
Sister, dost thou hear them singing ? 
How merrily they laugh and jest ! 
Would we were bidden with the rest ! 
I would don my hose' of homespun gray, 
And my doublet of linen striped and gay ; 
Perhaps they will come ; for they do not wed 
Till to-morrow at seven o'clock, it is said ! " 

" I know it ! " answered Margaret ; 
Whom the vision, with aspect black as jet, 

Mastered again ; and its hand of ice 
Held her heart crushed, as in a vice! 

" Paul, be not sad ! 'T is a holiday ; 

To-morrow put on thy doublet gay ! 

But leave me now for a while alone." 

Away, with a hop and a jump, went Paul, 

And, as he whistled along the hall. 

Entered Jane, the crippled crone. 

" Holy Virgin ! what dreadful heat ! 
I am faint, and weary, and out of breath ! 
But thou art cold, — art chill as death ; 
My little friend ! what ails thee, sweet ? " 
" Nothing ! I heard them singing home the bride ; 



324 36^ tbe 3firc6i^e. 

And, as I listened to the song, 

I thought my turn would come erelong. 

Thou knowest it is at Whitsuntide. 

Thy cards forsooth can never lie, 

To me such joy they prophesy, 

Thy skill shall be vaunted far and wide 

When they behold him at my side. 

And poor Baptiste, what sayest thou ? 
It must seem long to him ; — methinks I see him now ! " 

Jane, shuddering, her hand doth press : 

" Thy love I cannot all approve ; 
We must not trust too much to happiness ; — 
Go, pray to God, that thou mayst love him less ! " 

" The more I pray, the more I love ! 
It is no sin, for God is on my side ! " 
It was enough ; and Jane no more replied. 

Now to all hope her heart is barred and cold ; 

But to deceive the beldame old 

She takes a sweet, contented air ; 

Speaks of foul weather or of fair. 

At every word the maiden smiles ! 

Thus the beguiler she beguiles ; 
So that, departing at the evening's close. 

She says, " She may be saved ! she nothing knows ! " 

Poor Jane, the cunning sorceress ! 
Now that thou wouldst, thou art no prophetess ! 
This morning, in the fulness of thy heart, 

Thou wast so, far beyond thine art ! 



III. 



Now rings the bell, nine times reverberating, 
And the white daybreak, stealing up the sky, 
Sees in two cottages two maidens waiting. 
How differently ! 

Queen of a day, by flatterers caressed. 

The one puts on her cross and crown, 
Decks with a huge bouquet her breast, 
And flaunting, fluttering up and down. 
Looks at herself, and cannot rest. 
The other, blind, within her little room. 
Has neither crown nor flower's perfume ; 



XLbc mux^ (5tvl ot Cast^l=CuiU^» 335 

But in their stead for somethini^ gropes apart, 

That in a drawer's recess doth lie, 
And, 'neath her bodice of bright scarlet dye, 

Convulsive clasps it to her heart. 

The one, fantastic, light as air, 

'Mid kisses ringing. 

And joyous singing, 
Forgets to say her morning" prayer ! 

The other, with cold drops upon her brow, 

Joins her two hands, and kneels upon the floor, 

And whispers, as her brother opes the door, 
" O God ! forgive me now ! " 

And then the orphan, young and blind. 

Conducted by her brother's hand. 

Towards the church, through paths unscanned. 

With tranquil air, her way doth wind. 
Odors of laurel, making her faint and pale. 

Round her at times exhale. 
And in the sky as yet no sunny ray, 

But brumal vapors gray. 

Near that castle, fair to see. 
Crowded with sculptures old, in every part. 

Marvels of nature and of art, 

And proud of its name of high degree, 

A little chapel, almost bare 

At the base of the rock, is builded there ; 

All glorious that it lifts aloof. 

Above each jealous cottage roof, 
Its sacred summit, swept by autumn gales 

And its blackened steeple high in air, 

Round which the osprey screams and sails. 

" Paul, lay thy noisy rattle by ! " 
Thus Margaret said. " Where are we .'' we ascend I " 

" Yes ; seest thou not our journey's end .'' 
Hearest not the osprey from the belfry cry ? 
The hideous bird, that brings ill luck, we know ! 
Dost thou remember when our father said. 

The night we watched beside his bed, 

' O daughter, I am weak and low ; 
Take care of Paul ; I feel that I am dying ! ' 
And thou, and he, and I, all fell to crying ? 



326 :b^ tbe 3firc0iDc. 

Then on the roof the osprey screamed aloud ; 
And here they brought our father in his shroud. 
There is his grave ; there stands the cross we set ; 
Why dost thou clasp me so, dear Margaret ? 
Come in ! The bride will be here soon : 
Thou tremblest ! O my God ! thou art going to swoon ! " 

She could no more, — the blind girl, weak and weary ! 

A voice seemed crying from that grave so dreary, 

" What wouldst thou do, my daughter ? " — and she started. 

And quick recoiled, aghast, faint-hearted ; 
But Paul, impatient, urges evermore 

Her steps towards the open door ; 
And when, beneath her feet, the unhappy maid 
Crushes the laurel near the house immortal, 
And with her head, as Paul talks on again, 

Touches the crown of filigrane 

Suspended from the low-arched portal, 

No more restrained, no more afraid. 

She walks, as for a feast arrayed. 
And in the ancient chapel's sombre night 

They both are lost to sight. 

At length the bell, 
With booming sound, 
Sends forth, resounding round, 
Its hymeneal peal o'er rock and down the dell. 
It is broad day, with sunshine and with rain ; 
And yet the guests delay not long. 
For soon arrives the bridal train, 
And with it brings the village throng. 

In sooth, deceit maketh no mortal gay, 
For lo ! Baptiste on this triumphant day, 
Mute as an idiot, sad as yester-morning. 
Thinks only of the beldame's words of warning. 

And Angela thinks of her cross, I wis ; 

To be a bride is all ! The pretty lisper 

P^els her heart swell to hear all round her whisper, 

" How beautiful ! how beautiful she is ! " 

But she must calm that giddy head. 

For already the Mass is said ; 

At the holy table stands the priest ; 



^be m\u\t> 0irl of Cast^UGutlld. 327 

The wedding ring is blessed ; Baptiste receives it ; 
Ere on the tinger of the bride he leaves it, 

He must pronounce one word at least ! 
'T is spoken ; and sudden at the groomsman's side 
" 'T is he ! " a well-known voice has cried. 
And while the wedding guests all hold their breath, 
Opes the confessional, and the blind girl, see ! 
" Baptiste," she said, " since thou hast wished my death. 
As holy water be my blood for thee ! " 
And calmly in the air a knife suspended ! 
Doubtless her guardian angel near attended, 
For anguish did its work so well. 
That, ere the fatal stroke descended, 
Lifeless she fell ! 






LIFELESS SHE FELL ! " 



At eve, instead of bridal verse, 
The De Profundis filled the air ; 
Decked with Flowers a simple hearse 
To the churchyard forth they bear; 
Village girls in robes of snow 
Follow, weeping as they go ; 
Nowhere was a smile that day. 
No, ah no ! for each one seemed to say : 

" The road should mourn and be veiled in gloom, 
So fair a corpse shall leave its home I 
Should mourn and should weep, ah. well-away ! 
So fair a corpse shall pass to-day ! " 



338 :B^ tbe jflreslDe. 

A CHRISTMAS CAROL. 

FROM THE NOEI BOURGUIGNON DE GUI BAROZAL 

I HEAR along our street 
Pass the minstrel throngs ; 
Hark ! they play so sweet, 
On their hautboys, Christmas songs ! 
Let us by the fire 
Ever higher 
Sing them till the night expire ! 

In December ring 
Every day the chimes ; 
Loud the gleemen sing 
In the streets their merry rhymes. 
Let us by the fire 
Ever higher 
Sing them till the night expire. 

Shepherds at the grange, 
Where the Babe was born. 
Sang, with many a change, 
Christmas carols until morn. 
Let us by the fire 
Ever higher 
Sing them till the night expire ! 

These good people sang 
Songs devout and sweet ; 
While the rafters rang. 
There they stood with freezing feet. 
Let us by the fire 
Ever higher 
Sing them till the night expire. 

Nuns in frigid cells 
At this holy tide. 
For want of something else, 
Christmas songs at times have tried. 
Let us by the fire 
Ever higher 
Sing them till the night expire ! 



Ipa00acie6 trom jfritbiof'e Sacja. 'J29 

Wasliervvoincn old, 
To the sound they beat, 
Sin_i( by rivers cold, 
With uncovered heads and feet. 
Let us by the tire 
Ever higher 
Sing them till the night expire. 

Who by the fireside stands 
Stamps his feet and sings ; 
But he w^ho blows his hands 
Not so gay a carol brings. 
Let us by the tire. 
Ever higher 
Sing them till the night expire ! 



EARLY TRANSLATIONS. 

PASSAGES FROM FRITHIOF'S SAGA. 
I. 

FRITHIOF'S HOMESTEAD. 

Three miles extended around the fields of the homestead, on 
three sides 

Valleys and mountains and hills, but on the fourth side was the 
ocean. 

Birch woods crowned the tops of the hills, but over the sloping 
hillsides 

Sprang up the golden corn, and man-high was waving the rye- 
field. 

Lakes, full many in number, their mirror held up for the moun- 
tains, 

Held for the forests up, in whose depths the high-antlered rein- 
deers 

Had their kingly walk, and drank of a hundred brooklets. 

But in the valleys full w idely around, there fed on the greensward 

Herds with sleek shining hides and udders that longed for the 
milk-pail. 



330 Barl^ translations, 

'Mid these were scattered, now here and now there, a vast, 
countless number 

Of white wooled sheep, as thou seest the white-looking stray 
clouds, 

Flock-wise spread o'er the heavenly vault, when it bloweth in 
spring-time. 

Twice twelve swift-footed coursers, mettlesome, fast fettered 
storm-winds. 

Stamping stood in the line of stalls, all champing their fodder. 

Their manes all knotted with red, their hoofs all white with steel 
shoes. 

The banquet-hall, a house by itself, was timbered of hard fir. 

Not five hundred men (at ten times twelve to the hundred) 

Filled up the roomy hall, when assembled for drinking, at Yule- 
tide. 

Through the hall, as long as it was, went a table of holm-oak, 

Polished and white, as of steel ; the columns twain of the High- 
seat 

Stood at the end thereof, two gods carved out of an elm-tree ; 

Odin with lordly look, and Freya with the sun on his frontlet. 

Lately between the two, on a bear-skin (the skin it was coal- 
black, ^ 

Scarlet-red was the throat, but the paws were shodden with 
silver), 

Thorston sat with his friends. Hospitality sitting with Gladness. 

Oft, when the moon among night clouds flew, related the old 
man 

Wonders from far-distant lands he had seen, and cruises of 
Vikings 

Far on the" Baltic, and Sea of the West, and the North Sea. 

Hushed sat the listening bench, and their glances hung on the 
graybeard's 

Lips, as a bee on the rose ; but the Scald was thinking of Braga, 

Where, with silver beard, and runes on his tongue, he is seated 

Under the leafy beach, and tells a tradition by Mimer's 

Ever-murmuring wave, himself a living tradition. 

Midway the floor (with thatch was it strewn) burned the fire- 
flame forever, 

Glad on its stone-built hearth ; and through the wide-mouthed 
smoke-flue 

Looked the stars, those heavenlv friends, down into the great 
hall. 

But round the walls, upon nails of steel, were hanging in order 

Breastplate and helm with each other, and here and there among 
them 

Downward lightened a sword, as in winter evening a star shoots. 

More than helmets and swords the shields in the hall did glisten, 



{passages trom ^ritbiot's Saga. 331 

White as the orb of the sun, or white as the moon's disk of 
silver. 

^''^'drink-horns''^"^ ^ "'^'"^ "''""'^ ^^^ ^''''''^' '''''^ ^^'^^^ "P ^^^ 

Ever cast she he'r eyes down and blushed ; in the shield too her 
iiTiay'e 

^^^""Ihampfonr"' "''''' ^' '^'' ' '^''' ^'^^^^"^d the drinking 

II. 

A SLEDGE-RIDE ON THE ICE. 

King Ring with his queen to the banquet did fare, 
On the lake stood the ice so mirror-clear. 

" Fare not o'er the ice," the stranger cries • 

" It will burst, and full deep the cold bath lies." 

II The king drowns not easily," Ring out-spake; 
He who s afraid may go round the lake." 

Threatening and dark look'd the stranger round 
His steel shoes with haste on his feet he bound. ' 

The sleigh-horse starts forth strong and free • 
He snorteth flames, so glad is he. 

" Strike out," screamed the king, " my trotter good 
Let us see if thou art of Sleipner's blood." 

They go as a storm goes over the lake, 

No heed to his queen doth the old man take. 

But the steel-shod champion standeth not still 
He passeth them by as swift as he will. 

He carves many a rune in the frozen tide. 
Fair Ingeborg o'er her own name doth glide. 

in. 

FRITHIOF'S TEMPTATION. 

Spring is coming, birds are twittering, forests leaf, and smiles 
the sun, 

rimvln^ iT'T"^ torrents downward singing to the ocean run ; 
Glouing like the cheek of I< reya, peeping rosebuds 'gin to ope. 
And ill human hearts awaken love of life, and joy, and hope 



332 ^arlg translations. 

Now will hunt the ancient monarch, and the queen shall join 

the sport : 
Swarming in its gorgeous splendor, is assembled all the court ; 
Bows ring loud, and quivers rattle, stallions paw the ground 

alway, 
And, with hoods upon their eyelids, falcons scream for prey. 

See, the Queen of the chase advances ! Frithiof, gaze not on 

the sight ! 
Like a star upon a spring-cloud sits she on her palfrey white. 
Half of Freya, half of Rota, yet more beauteous than these two, 
And from her light hat of purple wave aloft the feathers blue. 



Now the huntsman's band is ready. Hurrah ! over hill and 

dale ! 
Horns ring, and the hawks right upward to the hall of Odin 

sail. 
All the dwellers in the forest seek in fear their cavern homes, 
But, with spear outstretched before her, after them Valkyrian 

comes. 



Then threw Frithiof down his mantle, and upon the greensward 

spread. 
And the ancient king so trustful laid on Frithiof 's knee his head. 
Slept, as calmly as the hero sleepeth, after war's alarms 
On his shield, calm as an infant sleepeth in its mother's arms. 

As he slumbers, hark ! there sings a coal-black bird upon the 

bough : 
" Hasten, Frithiof, slay the old man, close your quarrel at a blow ; 
Take his queen, for she is thine, and once the bridal kiss she 

Now no human eye beholds thee, deep and silent is the grave. 

Frithiof listens ; hark ! there sings a snow-white bird upon the 

bough : 
*' Though no human eye beholds thee, Odin's eye beholds thee 

now. 
Coward ! wilt thou murder sleep ! and a defenceless old man 

slay ! 
Whatsoe'er thou winn'st, thou canst not win a hero's fame this 

way." 

Thus the two wood-birds did warble : Frithiof took his war- 
sword good. 
With a shudder hurled it from him, far into the gloomy wood. 



Ipaesa^es from ^frltbiofs Saga, 333 

Coal-black bird flies down to Nastrand, but on light, unfolded 
wings. 

Like the tone of harps, the other, sounding towards the sun, up- 
springs. 

Straight the ancient king awakens. " Sweet has been my sleep " 
he said ; j i^ 

" Pleasantly sleeps one in the shadow, guarded by a brave man's 
blade. 

But where is thy sword, O stranger } Lightning's brother, where 

is he } 

Who thus parts you, who should never from each other parted 
be ! " 

" It avails not," Frithiof answered ; " in the North are other 

swords : 
Sharp, O monarch ! is the sword's tongue, and it speaks not 

peaceful words ; 
Murky spirits dwell in steel-blades, spirits from the Niffelhelm, 
Slumber is not safe before them, silver locks but anger them."' 



IV. 

frithiof's farewell. 

No more shall I see 

In its upward motion 

The smoke of the Northland. Man is a slave : 

The fates decree. 

On the waste of the ocean 

There is my fatherland, there is my grave. 

Go not to the strand. 

Ring, with thy bride, 

After the stars spread their light through the sky. 

Perhaps in the sand. 

Washed up by the tide. 

The bones of 'the outlawed Viking may lie. 

Then, quoth the king. 
" 'T is mournful to hear 
A man like a whimpering maiden cry. 
The death-song they sing- 
Even now in mine ear. 
What avails it } He who is born must die." 



334 ;6arl^ translations. 

ANCIENT SPANISH BALLADS. 
I. 

Rio Verde, Rio Verde ! 

Many a corpse is bathed in thee, 
Both of Moors and eke of Christians, 

Slain with swords most cruelly. 

And thy pure and crystal waters 
Dappled are with crimson gore ; 

For between the Moors and Christians 
Long has been the fight and sore. 

Dukes and counts fell bleeding near thee, 
Lords of high renown were slain, 

Perished many a brave hidalgo 
Of the noblemen of Spain. 



n. 



Don Nuno, Count of Lara, 

In anger and in pride, 
Forgot all reverence for the king. 

And thus in wrath replied : 

" Our noble ancestors," quoth he, 

" Ne'er such a tribute paid ; 
Nor shall the king receive of us 

What they have once gainsaid, 

" The base-born soul who deems it just 
May here with thee remain ; 

But follow me, ye cavaliers. 
Ye noblemen of Spain." 

Forth followed they the noble Count, 
They marched to Glera's plain ; 

Out of three thousand gallant knights 
Did only three remain. 

They tied the tribute to their spears, 

They raised it in the air, 
And they sent to tell their lord the King 

That his tax was ready there. 



Bncicnt Spanisb J6alla^6. 335 

" He may send and take by force," said they, 

" This paltry sum of i^old ; 
But the goodly gift of liberty 

Cannot be bought and sold." 



III. 

The peasant leaves his plough afield, 
The reaper leaves his hook, 

And from his hand the shepherd-boy 
Lets fall the pastoral crook. 

The young set up a shout of joy, 

The old forget their years. 
The feeble man grows stout of heart, 

No more the craven fears. 

All rush to Bernard's standard, 

And on liberty they call ; 
They cannot brook to wear the yoke, 

When threatened by the Gaul. 

Free w^re we born, 't is thus they cry, 

And willingly pay we 
The duty that w^e owe our King, 

By the divine decree. 

But God forbid that we obey 
The laws of foreign knaves. 

Tarnish the glory of our sires. 
And make our children slaves. 

Our hearts have not so craven grown, 

So bloodless all our veins. 
So vigorless our brawny arms, 

As to submit to chains. 

Has the audacious Frank, forsooth, 
Subdued these seas and lands ? 

Shall he a bloodless victory have ? 
No, not while we have hands. 

He shall learn that the gallant Leonese 

Can bravely fight and fall, 
But that they know not how to yield ; 

They are Castilians all. 



336 :i£arl^ tTranslatton^. 

Was it for this the Roman power 
Of old was made to yield 

Unto Numantia's valiant hosts 
On many a bloody field ? 

Shall the bold lions that have bathed 
Their paws in Libyan gore, 

Crouch basely to a feebler foe, 
And dare the strife no more ? 



Let the false king sell town and tower, 

But not his vassals free ; 
For to subdue the free-born soul 

No royal power hath he ! 



PRAISE OF LITTLE WOMEN. 

I WISH to make my sermon brief, — to shorten my oration, — 
For a never-ending" sermon is my utter detestation : 
I like short women, — suits at law without procrastination, — 
And am always most delighted with things of short duration. 

A babbler is a laughing-stock ; he's a fool who's always grin- 
ning ; 

But little women love so much, one falls in love with sinning. 

There are women who are very tall, and yet not worth the win- 
ning. 

And in the change of short for long repentance finds beginning. 

To praise the little women, Love besought me in my musing ; 

To tell their noble qualities is quite beyond refusing : 

So I'll praise the little wjmen, and you'll find the thing amus- 
ing : 

They are, I know, as cold as snow, whilst flames around diffus- 
ing. 

They're cold without, whilst warm within the flame of Love is 
raging; 

They're gay and pleasant in the street, — soft, cheerful, and en- 
gaging ; 

They're thrifty and discreet at home, — the cares of life assuaging : 

All this and more ; — try, and you'll find how true is my presag- 
ing:. 



%ct /iRe (Bo marm. 337 

In a little precious stone what splendor meets the eyes ! 
In a little lump of suii;-ar how much of sweetness lies, 
So in a little woman love grows and multiplies : 
You recollect the proverb says, — A word unto the wise. 

A pepper corn is very small, but seasons every dinner 
More than all other condiments, although 't is sprinkled thinner : 
Just so a little woman is, if Love will let you win her, — 
There's not a joy in all the world you will not tind within her. 

And as within the little rose you find the richest dyes. 
And in a little grain of gold much price and value lies, 
As from a little balsam much odor doth arise. 
So in a little woman there's a taste of paradise. 

Even as the little ruby its secret worth betrays. 
Color, and price, and virtue, in the clearness of its rays, — 
Just so a little woman much excellence displays, 
Beauty, and grace, and love, and fidelity always. 

The skylark and the nightingale, though small and light of wing. 
Yet warble sweeter in the grove than all the birds that sing : 
And so a little woman, though a very little thing. 
Is sweeter far than sugar, and flowers that bloom in spring. 

The magpie and the golden thrush have many a thrilling note, 

Each as a gay musician doth strain his little throat, — 

A merry little songster in his green and yellow coat : 

And such a little woman is, when Love doth make her dote. 

There's naught can be compared to her, throughout the wide 

creation ; 
She is a paradise on earth, — our greatest consolation, — 
So cheerful, gay, and happy, so free from all vexation : 
In fine, she's better in the proof than in anticipation. 

If as her size increases are woman's charms decreased, 

Then surely it is good to be from all the great released. 

Now of two evils choose the less, — said a wise man of the East : 

By consequence, of woman-kind be sure to choose the least. 

LET ME GO WARM. 

Let me go warm and merry still ; 
And let the world laugh, an' it will. 

Let others muse on earthly things, — 
The fall of thrones, — the fate of kings, — 

And those whose fame the world doth fill ; 
22 



838 



:i£arl^ translations. 

Whilst muffins sit enthroned in trays, 
And orange-punch in winter sways 
The merry sceptre of my days ; — 
And let the world laugh, an' it will. 

He that the royal purple wears 
From golden plate a thousand cares 
Doth swallow as a gilded pill : 




"and January's sleets and snows 

ARE SPREAD O'ER EVERY VALE AND HILL.' 



On feasts like these I turn my back, 
Whilst puddings in my roasting-jack 
Beside the chimney hiss and crack ; — 
And let the world laugh, an' it will. 

And when the wintry tempest blows, 
And January's sleets and snows 

Are spread o'er every vale and hill, 
With one to tell a merry tale 
O'er roasted nuts and humming ale, 
I sit, and care not for the gale ; — 

And let the world laugh, an' it will. 



Saint Lionel, tbe Convent. 339 

Let merchants traverse seas and lands, 
For silver mines and golden sands ; 

Whilst 1 beside some shadowy rill, 
Just where its bubbling fountain swells. 
Do sit and gather stones and shells, 
And hear the tale the blackbird tells ; — 

And let the world laugh, an' it will. 

For Hero's sake the Grecian lover 
The stormy Hellespont swam over : 

I cross, without the fear of ill, 
The wooden bridge that slow bestrides 
The Madrigal's enchanting sides, 
Or barefoot wade through Yeves tides ; — 

And let ihe world laugh, an' it will. 

But since the Fates so cruel prove, 
That Pyramus should die of love. 

And love should gentle Thisbe kill ; 
My Thisbe be an apple-tart. 
The sword I plunge into her heart 
The tooth that bites the crust apart, — 

And let the world laugh, an' it will. 



SAINT MIGUEL, THE CONVENT. 

Saint Miguel of the Tumba is a convent vast and wide ; 
The sea encircles it around, and groans on every side : 
It is a wild and dangerous place, and many woes betide 
The monks who in that burial-place in penitence abide. 

Within those dark monastic walls, amid the ocean flood, 
Of pious, fasting monks there dwelt a holy brotherhood ; 
To the Madonna's glory there an altar high was placed, 
And a rich and costly image the sacred altar graced. 

Exalted high upon a throne, the Virgin Mother smiled, 
And, as the custom is, she held within her arms the Child ; 
The kings and wise men of the East were kneeling by her 

side ; 
Attended was she like a queen whom God had sanctified. 



Descending low before her face a screen of feathers hung, — 
A moscader, or fan for flies, 't is called in vulgar tongue ; 



340 ^Barls translations. 

From the feathers of the peacock's wing 't was fashioned bright 

and fair, 
And glistened like the heaven above when all its stars are 

there. 

It chanced that, for the people's sins, fell the lightning's blast- 
ing stroke : 

Forth from all four the sacred walls the flames consuming 
broke ; 

The sacred robes were all consumed, missal and holy book ; 

And hardly with their lives the monks their crumbling walls 
forsook. 



But though the desolating flame raged fearfully and wild, 
It did not reach the Virgin Queen, it did not reach the Child ; 
It did not reach the feathery screen before her face that shone. 
Nor injure in a farthing's worth the image or the throne. 

The image it did not consume, it did not burn the screen ; 
Even in the value of a hair they were not hurt, I ween ; 
Not even the smoke did reach them, nor injure more the shrine 
Than the Bishop hight Don Tello has been hurt by hand of 
mine. 



VIDA DE SAN MILLAN. 

And when the kings were in the field, — their squadrons in 

array, — 
With lance in rest they onward pressed to mingle in the fray ; 
But soon upon the Christians fell a terror of their foes, — 
These were a numerous army, — a little handful those. 

And while the Christian people stood in this uncertainty. 
Upward toward heaven they turned their eyes, and fixed their 

thoughts on high ; 
And there two persons they beheld, all beautiful and bright, 
Even than the pure new-fallen snow, their garments were more 

white. 

They rode upon two horses more white than crystal sheen. 
And arms they bore such as before no mortal man had seen ; 
The one, he held a crosier, — a pontiff's mitre wore ; 
The other held a crucifix, — such man ne'er saw before. 



Di^a ^c San /IRUlan. 34i 

Their faces were angelical, celestial forms had they, — 

And downward through the fields of air they urged their rapid 

way ; 
They looked upon the Moorish host with fierce and angry look, 
And in their hands, with dire portent, their naked sabres shook. 

The Christian host, beholding this, straightway take heart 

again ; 
They fall upon their bended knees, all resting on the plain, 
And each one with his clenched fist to smite his breast begins, 
And promises to God on high he will forsake his sins. 

And when the heavenly knights drew near unto the battle- 
ground 
They dashed among the Moors and dealt unerring blows around ; 
Such deadly havoc there they made the foremost ranks along, 
A panic terror spread unto the hindmost of the throng. 

Together with these two good knights, the champions of the 

sky, 
The Christians rallied and began to smite full sore and high ; 
The Moors raised up their voices and by the Koran swore 
That in their lives such deadly fray they ne'er had seen before. 

Down went the misbelievers, — fast sped the bloody fight, — 
Some ghastly and dismembered lay, and some half dead with 

fright : 
Full sorely they repented that to the field they came. 
For they saw that from the battle they should retreat with 

shame. 



Another thing befell them, — they dreamed not of such woes,— 
The very arrows that the Moors shot from their twanging bows 
Turned back against them in their flight and wounded them full 

sore. 
And every blow they dealt the foe was paid in drops of gore. 



Now he that bore the crosier, and the papal crown had on, 
Was the glorified Apostle, the brother of St. John ; 
And he that held the crucifix, and wore the monkish hood, 
Was the holy San Millan of Cogolla's neighborhood. 



342 Barlg Uranslations. 



MILAGROS DE NEUSTRA SENORA. 

I, GONZALO DE Berceo, ill the gentle summer-tide, 
Wending upon a pilgrimage, came to a meadow's side : 
All green was it and beautiful, with flowers far and wide, — 
A pleasant spot, I ween, wherein the traveller might abide. 

Flowers with the sweetest odors filled all the sunny air. 
And not alone refreshed the sense, but stole the mind from care ; 
On every side a fountain gushed, whose waters pure and fair, 
Ice-cold beneath the summer sun, but warm in winter were. 

There on the thick and shadowy trees, amid the foliage green, 
Were the tig and the pomegranate, the pear and apple, seen ; 
And other fruits of various kinds, the tufted leaves between. 
None were unpleasant to the taste, and none decayed, I ween. 

The verdure of the meadow green, the odor of the flowers. 
The grateful shadows of the trees, tempered with fragrant 

showers. 
Refreshed me in the burning heat of the sultry noon-tide 

hours : 
Oh, one might live upon the balm and fragrance of those 

bowers ! 

Ne'er had I found on earth a spot that had such power 

to please. 
Such shadows from the summer sun. such odors on the breeze : 
I threw my mantle on the ground, that I might rest at ease. 
And stretched upon the greensward lay in the shadow of the 

trees. 

There soft reclining in the shade, all cares beside me flung, 

I heard the soft and mellow notes, that through the woodland 

rung: 
Ear never listened to a strain, from instrument or tongue, 
So mellow and harmonious as the songs above me sung. 



SONG OF THE RHINE. 

Forth rolled the Rhine-stream strong and deep 
Beneath Helvetia's Alpine steep. 
And joined in youthful company 
Its fellow-travellers to the sea. 



1baih! 1F:)arh! ipvett\2 ILar!^. 343 

In Germany embraced the Rhine, 
The Neckar, the Mozel, the Lahn, and the Main, 
And strengthened by each rushing tide, 
Onward he marched in kingly pride. 

But soon from his enfeebled grasp 

The satraps of his power, 
The current's flowing veins unclasp — 

He moves in pride no more. 

Forth the confederate waters broke 

On that rebellious day. 
And, bursting from their monarch's yoke, 

Each chose a separate way. 

Wahl, Issel, Leek, and Wecht, all, all 

Flowed sidewards o'er the land, 
And a nameless brook, by Leyden's wall, 

The Rhine sank in the sand. 



HARK! HARK! PRETTY LARK! 

Hark! Hark! 

Pretty lark ! 
Little heedest thou my pain ! 
But if to these longing arms 
Pitying Love would yield the charms 

Of the fair 

With smiling air. 
Blithe would beat my heart again. 

Hark! Hark! 

Pretty lark! 
Little heedest thou my pain ! 
Love may force me still to bear, 
While he lists, consuming care ; 

But in anguish 

Though I languish, 
Faithful shall my heart remain, 

Hark! Hark I 
Pretty lark ! 
Little heedest thou my pain ! 



344 



Barl^ translations. 



Then cease, Love, to torment me so ; 
But rather than all thoughts forego 

Of the fair 

With flaxen hair, 
Give me back her frowns a^ain. 



<S' 







.J 



4> 



" hark; ! HARK ! 
PRETTY LARK ! " 



Hark ! Hark ! 
Pretty lark ! 
Little heedest thou my pain ! 



THE NATURE OF LOVE. 



To noble heart Love doth for shelter fly, 

As seeks the bird the forest's leafy shade ; 

Love was not felt till noble heart beat high, 

Nor before love the noble heart was made. 

Soon as the sun's broad flame 

Was formed, so soon the clear light filled the air ; 



B iflorcntine Song, 

Yet was not till he came : 

So love springs up in noble breasts, and there 

Has its appointed space, 

As heat in the bright flame finds its allotted place. 

Kindles in noble heart the fire of love, 

As hidden virtue in the precious stone : 

This virtue comes not from the stars above. 

Till round it the ennobling sun has shone ; 

But when his powerful blaze 

Has drawn forth what was vile, the stars impart 

Strange virtue in their rays : 

And thus when Nature doth create the heart 

Noble and pure and high, 

Like virtue from the star, love comes from woman's eye. 



345 




If I am fair, 't is for myself alone, 

I do not wish to have a sweetheart near me. 

Nor would I call another's heart my own, 

Nor have a gallant lover to revere me. 

For surely I will plight my faith to none. 

Though many an amorous cit would jump to hear me ; 

For I have heard that lovers prove deceivers. 

When once they find that maidens are believers. 



346 Barl^ translations. 

Yet should I find one that in truth could please me, 
One whom I thought my charms had power to move, 
Why then, I do confess the whim might seize me. 
To taste for once the porringer of love. 
Alas ! there is one pair of eyes that tease me ; 
And then that mouth ! — he seems a star above, 
He is so good, so gentle, and so kind. 
And so unlike the sullen, clownish hind. 

What love may be, indeed I cannot tell, 
Nor if I e'er have known his cunning arts ; 
But true it is, there's one I like so well. 
That w^hen he looks at me my bosom starts, 
And, if we meet, my heart begins to swell ; 
And the green fields around, when he departs, 
Seem like a nest, from which the bird has flown ; 
Can this be love ? — say — ye who love have known ! 



THE ASSUMPTION OF THE VIRGIN. 

Lady ! thine upward flight 
The opening heavens receive wMth joyful song : 

Blest, who thy garments bright 

May seize, amid the throng. 
And to the sacred mount float, peacefully along. 

Bright angels are around thee. 
They that have served thee from thy birth are there 

Their hands with stars have crowned thee ; 

Thou, — peerless Queen of air, 
As sandals to thy feet the silver moon dost wear. 

Celestial dove ! so meek 
And mild and fair! — oh, let thy peaceful eye 

This thorny valley seek, 

Where such sweet blossoms lie, 
But where the sons of Eve in pain and sorrow sigh. 

For if the imprisoned soul 
Could catch the brightness of that heavenly way, 

'T would own its sweet control 

And gentl)' pass away. 
Drawn by its magnet power to an eternal day. 



Zbc BfsemboMcD Spirit. 347 



THE NATIVITY OF CHRIST. 

To-DAV from the Aurora's bosom 
A pink has fallen, — a crimson blossom : 
And oh, how glorious rests the hay 
On which the fallen blossom lay. 

When silence gently had unfurled 
Her mantle over all below. 
And, crowned with winter's frost and snow, 
Night swayed the sceptre of the world, 
Amid the gloom descending slow, 
Upon the monarch's frozen bosom 
A pink has fallen, — a crimson blossom. 

The only llower the Virgin bore 
(Aurora fair,) within her breast. 
She gave to earth, yet still possessed 
Her virgin blossom as before : 
The hay that colored drop caressed, — 
Received upon its faithful bosom 
That single flower, — a crimson blossom. 

The manger, unto which 't was given, 
Even amid wintry snows and cold. 
Within its fostering arms to fold 
The blushing flower that fell from Heaven, 
Was as a canopy of gold, — 
A downy couch, — w^hereon its bosom 
That flower had fallen, — that crimson blossom. 



THE DISEMBODIED SPIRIT. 

Pure Spirit ! that within a form of clay 

Once veiled the brightness of thy native sky ; 
In dreamless slumbei^ sealed thy burning eye. 
Nor heavenward sought to wing thy flight away ! 

He, that chastist-tl thee, did at length unclose 

Thy prison doors, and give thee sweet release ; — 
Unloosed the mortal coil, eternal peace 
Received thee to its stillness and reoose. 




THE NATIVITY OF CHRIST. 



Zbc %0KfCf6 Complaint. 349 

Look down once more from thy celestial dwelling, 
Help me to rise and be immortal there, — 
An earthly vapor melting- into air ; — 

For my whole soul, with secret ardor swelling, 
From earth's dark mansion struggles to be" free, 
And longs to soar away and be at rest with thee. 



IDEAL BEAUTY. 

O Light serene ! present in him who breathes 
That love divine, which kindles yet restrains 
The high-born soul — that in its mortal chains 
Heavenward aspires for love's immortal wreaths ! 

Rich golden locks, within whose clustered curls 
Celestial and eternal treasures lie ! 
A voice that breathes angelic harmony 
Among bright coral and unspotted pearls ! 

What marvellous beauty ! Of the high estate 
Of immortality, within this light 
Transparent veil of flesh, a glimpse is given ; 

And in the glorious form, I contemplate, 

(Although its brightness blinds my feeble sight,) 
The immortal still I seek and follow on to Heaven ! 



THE LOVER'S COMPLAINT. 

Bright Sun ! that, flaming through the mid-day sky, 
Fillest with light heaven's blue, deep- vaulted arch. 
Say, hast thou seen in thy celestial march 
One hue to rival this blue, tranquil eye ? 

Thou Summer Wind, of soft and delicate touch, 
Fanning me gently with thy cool, fresh pinion. 
Say, hast thou found, in all thy wide dominion, 
Tresses of gold, that can delight so much ? 

Moon, honor of the night ! Thou glorious choir 
Of wandering Planets and eternal Stars ! 
Say, have ye seen two peerless orbs like these ? 

Answer me, Sun, Air, Moon, and Stars of fire — 
Hear ye my woes, that know no bounds nor bars ? 
See ye these cruel stars, that brighten and yet freeze ? 




^* AN EARTHLY VAPOR MELTING INTO AIR." 



Son^, 



351 



SONG. 

She is a maid of artless grace, 
Gentle in form, and fair of face. 

Tell me, thou ancient mariner, 
That sailest on the sea, 

If ship, or sail, or evening star 
Be half so fair as she ! 




"tell me, thou ancient mariner." 



Tell me, thou gallant cavalier, 
Whose shining arms I see. 

If steel, or sword, or battle-field 
Be half so fair as she ! 



Tell me, thou swain, that guard'st thy flock 

Beneath the shadowy tree. 
If flock, or vale, or mountain-ridge 

Be half so fair as she ! 



352 Barl^ translations. 



THE GENTLE SIGH. 

And whither goest thou, gentle sigh, 

Breathed so softly in my ear ? 

Say, dost thou bear his fate severe 
To Love's poor martyr doomed to die ? 
Come, tell me quickly, — do not lie ; 

What secret message bring'st thou here ? 
And whither goest thou, gentle sigh, 

Breathed so softly in my ear ? 

May Heaven conduct thee to thy will. 
And safely speed thee on thy way ; 
This only I would humbly pray, — 

Pierce deep, — but oh ! forbear to kill. 

And whither goest thou, gentle sigh, 
Breathed so softly in my ear ? 



SICILIAN CANZONET. 

What shall I do, sweet Nici, tell me, 
I burn, — I burn, — I can no more ! 
I know not how the thing befell me, 
But I'm in love, and all is o'er. 
One look, — alas ! one glance of thine. 
One single glance my death shall be ; 
Even this poor heart no more is mine, 
For, Nici, it belongs to thee. 

How shall I then my grief repress, 
How shall this soul in anguish live ? 
I fear a no, — desire a.jyes, — 
But which the answer thou wilt give ? 
No, — Love, — not so deceived am I ; 
Soft pity dwells in those bright eyes, 
And no tyrannic cruelty 
Within that gentle bosom lies. 

Then, fairest Nici, speak and say 
If I must know thy love or hate ; 
Oh, do not leave me thus, I pray, 
But speak, — be quick, — I cannot wait. 
Quick, — I entreat thee ; — if not so. 
This weary soul no more shall sigh ; — 
So tell me quickly, — jyes or no. 
Which, — which shall be my destiny. 



3fr(ai Xubfn. 



353 



TELL ME, TELL ME, THOU PRETTY BEE. 

Tell me, tell me, thou pretty bee, 
Whither so early thy flight may be ? 
Not a neighboring mountain height 
Yet blushes with the morning 

light ; 
Still the dew on spray and blossom 
Trembling shines in the meadow's 

bosom ; 
Why do I see thee, then, unfold 
Thy soft and dainty wings of 

gold ; — 
Those little wings are weary quite, 
Still thou boldest thine onward 

flight,— 
Then tell me, tell me, thou pretty 

bee, 
Whither so early thy flight may be. 

Thou seekest honey?— if it be so. 
Fold up thy wings, — no farther go ; 
I '11 show thee a safe and sacred spot. 
Where all the year round 't will fail thee 

not. 
Knowest thou the maid for whom I sigh,- 
Her of the bright and beaming eye ? 
Endless sweetness shalt thou sip, 
Honeyed stores upon her lip. 
On those lips of brightest red, 
Lips of the beloved maid, .^ 

Sweetest honey lies for thee ; — ^ 

Sip it, sip it ;— this is she. c. .,^^,^ ^^^ ^^, ,^ „^, .j-hou 

IKETTY BEE." 




FRIAR LUBIN. 



To gallop off to town post-haste, 
So oft, the times I cannot tell ; 
To do vile deed, nor feel disgraced. 

Friar Lubin will do it well. 
But a sober life to lead, 

To honor virtue, and pursue it. 
That 's a pious, Christian deed, — 
Friar Lubin cannot do it. 
23 



354 jEarl^ ^ranalations. 

To mingle, with a knowing smile, 

The goods of others with his own, 
And leave you without cross or pile, 

Friar Lubin stands alone. 
To say 't is yours is all in vain, 

If once he lays his finger to it ; 
For as to giving back again, 

Friar Lubin cannot do it. 

With flattering words and gentle tone, 

To seduce the guileless maid, 
Cunning pander need you none, — 

Friar Lubin knows the trade. 
Loud preacheth he sobriety. 

But as for water, doth eschew it ; 
Your dog may drink it, — but not he ; 

Friar Lubin cannot do it. 



ENVOY. 

When an evil deed 's to do, 
Friar Lubin is stout and true ; 
Glimmers a ray of goodness throught it, 
Friar Lubin cannot do it. 



CARE AND MELANCHOLY. 

Hence away, begone, begone, 

Carking care and melancholic ! 

Think ye thus to govern me 
All my life long, as ye have done ? 
That shall ye not, I promise ye. 

Reason shall have the masterie. 
So hence away, begone, begone, 

Carking care and melancholic ! 

If ever ye return this way, 
With your mournful company, 

A curse be on ye, and the day 

That brings ye moping back to me ! 

Hence away, begone, I say, 
Carkingf care and melancholic ! 



B SolDier*8 Song, ass 



RONDEL. 



Love, love, what wilt thou with this heart of mine ? 

Nought see I fixed or sure in thee ! 
I do not know thee,— nor what deeds are thine : 
Love, love, what wilt thou with this heart of mine ? 

Nought see I fixed or sure in thee ! 

Shall 1 be mute, or vows with prayers combine ? 

Ye who are blessed in loving, tell it me : 
Love, love, what wilt thou with this heart of mine ? 

Nought see I permanent or sure in thee ! 

CHRISTMAS CAROL. 

When Christ was born in Bethlehem, 
'T was night, but seemed the noon of day ; 
The stars, whose light 
Was pure and bright, 
Shone with unwavering ray ; 
But one, one glorious star 
Guided the Eastern Magi from afar. 

Then peace was spread throughout the land ; 
The lion fed beside the tender lamb ; 
And with the kid. 
To pastime led. 
The spotted leopard fed ; 
In peace, the calf and bear. 
The wolf and lamb reposed together there. 

As shepherds watched their flocks by night, 
An Angel, brighter than the sun's own light, 
Appeared in air. 
And gently said. 
Fear not, — be not afraid. 
For lo ! beneath your eyes. 
Earth has become a smiling paradise. 

A SOLDIER'S SONG. 

" Who knocks,— who knocks at my door, 

Who knocks, and who can it be ? " 
" Thy own true lover, betrothed forever, 

So open the door to me." 



356 Barlg ^ranslationa. 

" My mother is not at home, 

So I cannot open to thee." 
" Why make me wait so long at the gate, 

For mercy's sake open to me." 

" Thou canst not come in so late, 
From the window I'll listen to thee." 

" My cloak is old, and the wind blows cold, 
So open the door to me." 



CLEAR HONOR OF THE LIQUID ELEMENT. 

Clear honor of the liquid element, 
Sweet rivulet of shining silver sheen ! 
Whose waters steal along the meadows green. 
With gentle step, and murmur of content ! 

When she, for whom I bear each fierce extreme, 
Beholds herself in thee, — then Love doth trace 
The snow and crimson of that lovely face 
In the soft gentle movement of thy stream. 

Then, smoothly flow as now ; and set not free 
The crystal curb and undulating rein 
Which now thy current's headlong speed restrain 

Lest broken and confused the image rest 

Of such rare charms on the deep-heaving breast 
Of him who holds and sways the trident of the sea. 



THE RETURN OF SPRING. 

Now Time throws off his cloak again 
Of ermined frost, and wind, and rain, 
And clothes him in the embroidery 
Of glittering sun and clear blue sky. 
With beast and bird the forest rings, 
Each in his jargon cries or sings ; 
And Time throws off his cloak again 
Of ermined frost, and wind, and rain. 

River, and fount, and tinkling brook 

Wear m their dainty livery 

Drops of silver jewelry ; 

In new-made suit they merry look ; 

And Time throws off his cloak again 

Of ermined frost, and wind, and rain. 



Zbc ^vvo fbarvcsts. 357 



A NEAPOLITAN CANZONET. 

One morning, on the sea-shore as I strayed, 
My heart dropped in the sand beside the sea ; 
I asked of yonder mariners, who said 
They saw it in thy bosom, — worn by thee. 
And I am come to seek that heart of mine, 
For I have none, and thou, alas ! hast two ; 
If this be so, dost know what thou shalt do? — 
Still keep my heart, and give me, give me thine. 



ART AND NATURE. 

The works of human artifice soon tire 

The curious eye ; the fountain's sparkling rill. 
And gardens, when adorned with human skill, 
Reproach the feeble hand, the vain desire. 

But oh ! the free and wild magnificence 
Of Nature, in her lavish hours, doth steal. 
In admiration silent and intense. 
The soul of him who hath a soul to feel. 

The river moving on its ceaseless way, 

The verdant reach of meadows fair and green. 
And the blue hills, that bound the sylvan scene. 

These speak of grandeur, which shall not decay, — 
Proclaim the Eternal Architect on high. 
Who stamps on all his works his own eternity. 



THE TWO HARVESTS. 

But yesterday these few and hoary sheaves 

Waved in the golden harvest ; from the plain 

I saw the blade shoot upward, and the grain 

Put forth the unripe ear and tender leaves. 

Then the glad upland smiled upon the view. 

And to the air the broad green leaves unrolled, 

A peerless emerald in each silken fold. 

And on each palm a pearl of morning dew. 

And thus sprang up and ripened in brief space 

All that beneath the reaper's sickle died, 

All that smiled beauteous in the summer-tide. 

And what are we ? a copy of that race. 

The later harvest of a longer year ! 

And oh ! how many fall before the ripened ear ! 



NOTES. 



Page 86. The gold of the Bus/ie. 

Busne is the name given by the Gypsies to all who are not of their race. 

Page 86. Count of the Cales. 

The Gypsies call themselves Cales. See Borrow's valuable antl ex- 
tremely interesting work, The Zi/nali ; or an Accoidit of the Gypsies in 
Spain. London, 1841. 

Page 92. And amen f said the Cid Cavipeador. 

A line from the ancient Poema del Cid. 

Page 92. The river of his thoughts. 

This expression is Irom Dante. 

Byron lias likewise used the expression ; though I tlo not recollect in 
which of his poems. 

Page 93. Mari Franca. 

A common Spanish proverb, used to turn aside a question one does 
not wish to answer. 

Page 93. Ay, soft, emerald eyes. 

The Spaniards, witli good reason, consider this color of the eye as 
beautiful, and celebrate it in song. 

Page 94. The Avenging Child. 

See the ancient Ballads of El Infante Vengador, and Calaynos. 

Page 95. All are sleeping. 
From the Spanish, Bohl's Floresta, No. 282. 
Page 107. Good night. 

From the Spanish ; as are likewise the songs immediately following, 
and that which commences the first scene of Act III. 

Page 123. The evil eye. 

" In the(jitano language, casting the evil eye is called Qucrelar nasula, 
which simply means making sick, and which, according to the common 
superstition, is accomjjlislied by casting an evil look at peojile, especi- 
ally children, who, from the tenderness of their constitution, are sup- 
l^osed to be more easily blighted than those of a more mature age. 
After receiving the evil glance, they fall sick, and die in a few hours. 

" The Spaniards have very little to say respecting the evil eye, though 
the belief in it is very prevalent, esi^ecially in Andalusia, amongst the 
lower orders. A stag's horn is considered a good safeguard, and on that 
account a small horn, tipped with silver, is frecpiently attached to the 
children's necks by means of a cord braided from the hair of a black 
mare's tail. Should the evil glance be cast, it is imagined that the horn 
receives it, and instantly snaps asunder. Such horns may be jjurchased 
in some of the silversmitlis' shojis at Seville. " — P>( )U row's /.ineali. Vol. I. 
ch. ix. 

F'age 123. On the top of a mountain 1 stand. 

This and the following scraps of song are from Horrou's /.uicali ; or an 
Account of the Gypsies in Spain. 



360 motes. 

The Gypsy words in the same scene may be thus interpreted : — 

yohn-Dorados, pieces of gold. 

Pigeon, a simpleton. 

In your morocco, stripped. 

Doves, sheets. 

Moon, a shirt. 

Chirelin, a thief. 

Murcigalleros, those who steal at nightfall. 

Rastilleros, footpads. 

Hermit, highway-robber. 

Planets, candles. 

Comtnandments, the fingers. 

Saint Martin asleep, to rob a person asleep. 

Lanterns, eyes. 

Goblin, police officer. 

Papagayo, a spy. 

Vineyards and Dancing yohn, to take flight. 

Page 131. If thou art sleeping, maiden. 

From the Spanish ; as is likewise the song of the Contrabandista on 
page 133. 

Page 163. Capias de Manrique. 

This poem of Manrique is a great favorite in Spain. No less than 
four poetic Glosses, or running commentaries, upon it have been pub- 
lished, no one of which, however, possesses great poetic merit. That 
of the Carthusian monk, Rodrigo de Valdepeiias, is the best. It is 
known as the Closa del Cartujo. There is also a prose Commentary by 
Luis de Aranda. 

Page 187. King Christian. 

Nils Juel was a celebrated Danish Admiral, and Peder Wessel, a Vice- 
Admiral, who for his great prowess received the popular title of Torden- 
skiold, or Thundershield. In childhood he was a tailor's apprentice, and 
rose to his high rank before the age of twenty-eight, when he was killed 
in a duel. 

Page 199. The Skeleton in Armor. 

This Ballad was suggested to me while riding on the sea-shore at New- 
port. A year or two previous a skeleton had been dug up at Fall River, 
clad in broken and corroded armor ; and the idea occurred to me of con- 
necting it with the Round Tower at Newport, generally known hitherto 
as the Old Windmill, though now claimed by the Danes as a work of 
their early ancestors. 

Page 203. Skoal / 

In Scandinavia, this is the customary salutation when drinking a health. 
I have slightly changed the orthography of the word, in order to preserve 
the correct pronunciation. 

Page 207. The Luck of Eden hall. 

The tradition upon which this ballad is founded, and the " shards of 
the Luck of Edenhall," still exist in England. The goblet is in the pos- 
session of Sir Christopher Musgrave, Bart., of Eden Hall, Cumberland ; 
and is not so entirely shattered as the ballad leaves it. 

Page 208. The Elected Knight. 

This strange and somewhat mystical ballad is from Nyerup and Rah- 
bek's Danske Viser of the Middle Ages. It seems to refer to the first 
preaching of Christianity in the North, and to the institution of Knight- 
Errantry. The three maidens I suppose to be Faith, Hope, and Charity. 



motes. 301 

The irregularities of the original have been carefully preserved in the 
translation. 

Page 2IO. The Children of the Lord's Supper. 

There is sonietliing patriarchal still lingering about rural life in Sweden, 
which renders it a fit theme for song. Almost primeval simplicity reigns 
over that Northern land, — almost primeval solitude and stillness. You 
pass out from the gate of the city, and, as if by magic, the scene changes 
to a wild, woodland landscape. Around you are forests of fir. Over- 
head hang the long, fan-like branches, trailing with moss, and heavy with 
red and blue cones. Under foot is a carpet of yellow leaves ; and the 
air is warna and balmy. On a wooden bridge you cross a little silver 
stream ; and anon come forth into a pleasant and sunny land of farms. 
Wooden fences divide the adjoining fields. Across the road are gates, 
which are opened by troops of children. The peasants take off their 
hats as you pass ; you sneeze, and they cry, " God bless you ! " The 
houses in the villages and smaller towns are all Vjuilt of hewn timber, and 
for the most part painted red. The floors of the taverns are strewn with 
the fragrant tips of fir boughs. In many villages there are no taverns, 
and the peasants take turns in receiving travellers. The thrifty house- 
wife shows you into the best chamber, the walls of which are hung round 
with rude pictures from the Bible , and brings you her heavy silver 
spoons, — an heirloom, — to dip the curdled milk from the pan. You have 
oaten cakes baked some months before, or bread with anise-seed and 
coriander in it, or perhaps a little pine bark. 

Meanwhile the sturdy husband has brought his horses from the plough, 
and harnessed them to your carriage. Solitary travellers come and go 
in uncouth one-horse chaises. Most of them have pipes in their mouths, 
and, hanging around their necks in front, a leather wallet, in which they 
carry tobacco, and the great bank-notes of the country, as large as your 
two hands. You meet, also, groups of Dalekarlian peasant -women, 
travelling homeward or townward in pursuit of work. They walk bare- 
foot, carrying in their hands their shoes, which have high heels under the 
hollow of the foot, and soles of birch bark. 

Frequent, too, are the village churches, standing by the roadside, each 
in its own little Garden of Gethsemane. In the parish register great 
events are doubtless recorded. Some old king was christened or buried 
in that church ; and a little sexton, with a rusty key, shows you the bap- 
tismal font, or the coffin. In the churchyard are a few flowers, and much 
green grass ; and daily the shadow of the church spire, with its long, taper- 
ing finger, counts the tombs, representing a dial-plate of human life, on 
which the hours and minutes are the graves of men. The stones are 
flat, and large, and low, and perhaps sunken, like the roofs of old houses. 
On some are armorial bearings ; on others only the initials of the poor 
tenants, with a date, as on the roofs of Dutch cottages. Tliey all sleep 
with their heads to the westward. Each held a liglited taper in his hand 
when he died ; and in his coftin were placed his little heart-treasures, and 
a piece of money for his last journey. Babes that came lifeless into the 
world were carried in the arms of gray-haired old men to the only cradle 
they ever slept in ; and in the shroud of the dead mother were laid the 
little garments of the child that lived and died in her bosom. And over 
this scene the village pastor looks from his window in the stillness of mid- 
night, and says in his heart, " How quietly they rest, all the departed ! " 

Near the churchyard gate stands a poor-box, fastened to a post by 
iron bands, and secured by a padlock, with a sloping wooden roof to 
keep off the rain. If it be Sunday, the peasants sit on the church steps 
and con their psalm-books." Others are coming down the road witii 
their beloved pastor, who talks to them of holy things from beneath his 



363 motes, 

broad-brimmed hat. He speaks of fields and harvests, and of the para- 
ble of the sower, that w ent forth to sow. He leads them to the Good 
Shepherd, and to the pleasant pastures of the spirit-land. He is their 
patriarch, and, like Melchizedek, both priest and king, though he has no 
other throne than the church pulpit. The women carry psalm-books in 
their hands, wrapped in silk handkerchiefs, and listen devoutly to the 
good man's words. But the young men, like Gallio, care for none of 
these things. They are busy counting the plaits in the kirtles of the 
peasant-girls, their number being an indication of the wearer's wealth. 
It may end in a wedding. 

I will endeavor to describe a village wedding in Sweden. It shall be 
in summer-time, that there may be flowers, and in a southern province, 
that the bride may be fair. The early song of the lark and of chanticleer 
are mingling in the clear morning air, and the sun, the heavenly bride- 
groom with golden locks, arises in the east, just as our earthly bride- 
groom with yellow hair arises in the south. In the yard there is a sound 
of voices and trampling of hoofs, and horses are led forth and saddled. 
The steed that is to bear the bridegroom has a bunch of flowers upon 
his forehead, and a garland of corn-flowers around his neck. Friends 
from the neighboring farms come riding in, their blue cloaks streaming 
to the wind ; and finally the happy bridegroom, with a whip in his hand, 
and a monstrous nosegay in the breast of his black jacket, comes forth 
from his chamber ; and then to horse and away, towards the village 
where the bride already sits and waits. 

Foremost rides the Spokesman, followed by some half-dozen village 
musicians. Next comes the bridegroom between his two groomsmen, 
and then forty or fifty friends and wedding guests, half of them perhaps 
with pistols and guns in their hands. A kind of baggage-wagon brings 
up the rear, laden with food and drink for these merry pilgrims. At the 
entrance of every village stands a triumphal arch, adorned with flowers 
and ribbons and evergreens ; and as they pass beneath it the wedding 
guests fire a salute, and the whole procession stops. And straight from 
every pocket flies a black-jack, filled with punch or brandy. It is 
passed from hand to hand among the crowd ; provisions are brought 
frorn the wagon, and after eating and drinking and hurrahing the pro- 
cession moves forward again, and at length draws near the house of the 
bride. Four heralds ride forward to announce that a knight and his 
attendants are in the neighboring forest, and pray for hospitality. 
" How many are you ? " asks the bride's father. " A't least three hun- 
dred," is the answer; and to this the host replies, " Yes; were you 
seven times as many, you should all be welcome : and in token thereof 
receive this cup." Whereupon each herald receives a can of ale ; and 
soon after the whole jovial company comes storming into the farmer's 
yard, and, riding round the May-pole, which stands in the centre, alights 
amid a grand salute and flourish of music. 

In the hall sits the bride, with a crown upon her head and a tear in her 
eye, like the Virgin Mary in old church paintings. She is dressed in a 
red bodice and kirtle with loose linen sleeves. There is a gilded belt 
around her waist ; and around her neck strings of golden beads, and a 
golden chain. On the crown rests a wreath of wild roses, and below it 
another of cypress. Loose over her shoulders falls her flaxen hair ; and 
her blue innocent eyes are fixed upon the ground. O thou good soul ! 
thou hast hard hands, but a soft heart ! Thou art poor. The very 
ornaments thou wearest are not thine. They have been hired for this 
great day. Yet art thou rich ; rich in health, rich in hope, rich in thy 
first, young, fervent love. The blessing of Heaven be upon thee ! So 
thinks the parish priest, as he joins together the hands of bride and 



notC6, 363 

bridegroom, saying in deep, solemn tones,—" I give thee in marriage 
this damsel, to be thy wedded wife in all honor, and to share the half of 
thy bed, thy lock and key, and every third penny which you two may 
possess, or may inherit, and all the rights which Upland's laws provide, 
and the holy King Erik gave." 

The dinner is now served, and the bride sits between the bridegroom 
and the priest. The Spokesman delivers an oration after the ancient 
custom of his fathers. He interlards it well with quotations from the 
Bible ; and invites the Saviour to be present at this marriage feast, as 
he was at the marriage feast in Cana of Galilee, The table is not spar- 
ingly set forth. Each makes a long arm and the feast goes cheerly on. 
Punch and brandy pass round between the courses, and here and there 
a pipe is smoked while waiting for the ne.xt dish. They sit long at 
table ; but, as all things must have an end, so must a Swedish dinnel". 
Then the dance begins. It is led off by the bride and the priest, who 
perform a solemn minuet together. Not till after midnight comes the 
Last Dance. The girls form a ring around the bride, to keep her from 
the hands of the married women, who endeavor to break through the 
magic circle, and seize their new sister. After long struggling they suc- 
ceed ; and the crown is taken from her head and the jewels from her 
neck, and her bodice is unlaced and her kirtle taken off; and like a 
vestal virgin clad all in white she goes, V)ut it is to her marriage cham- 
ber, not to her grave ; and the wedding guests follow her with lighted 
candles in their hands. And this is a village bridal. 

Nor must I forget the suddenly changing seasons of the Northern 
clime. There is no long and lingering spring, unfolding leaf and blos- 
som one by one ; no long and lingering autumn, pompous with many- 
colored leaves and the glow of Indian summers. But winter and sum- 
mer are wonderful, and pass into each other. The quail has hardly 
ceased piping in the corn, when winter from the folds of trailing clouds 
sows broadcast over the land snow, icicles, and rattling hail. The days 
wane apace. Ere long the sun hardly rises above the horizon, or does 
not rise at all. The moon and the stars shine through the day ; only, at 
noon, they are pale and wan, and in the southern sky a red, fiery glow, as 
of sunset, burns along the horizon, and then goes out. And pleasantly 
under the silver moon, and under the silent, solemn stars, ring the steel- 
shoes of the skaters on tlie frozen sea, and voices, and the sound of bells. 

And now the Northern Lights begin to burn, faintly at first, like sun- 
beams playing in the waters of the blue sea. Then a soft crimson glow 
tinges the heavens. There is a blush on the cheek of night. The colors 
come and go, and change from crimson to gold, from gold to crimson. 
The snow is stained with rosy light. Two-fold from the zenith, east and 
west, flames a fiery sword ; and a broad band passes athwart the heav- 
ens like a summer sunset. Soft purple clouds come sailing over the 
sky, and through their vapory folds the winking stars shine white as 
silver. With such pomp as this is Merry Christmas ushered in, though 
only a single star heralded the first Christmas. And in memory of that 
day the Swedish peasants dance on straw ; and the peasant-girls throw 
straws at the timbered roof of the hall, and for every one that sticks in a 
crack shall a groomsman come to their wedding. Merry Christmas 
indeed ! For pious souls there shall be church songs and sermons, but 
for Swedish peasants, brandy and nut-brown ale in wooden bowls ; and 
the great Yule-cake crowned with a cheese, and garlanded with apples, 
and upholding a three-armed candlestick over the Christmas feast. 
They may tell tales, too. of Jims Lundsbracka, and Lunkenfus, and the 
great Riddar Finke of Pingsdaga.* 

* Titles of Swedish popular tales. 



364 motes. 

And now the glad, leafy midsummer full of blossoms and the song of 
nightingales, is come ! Saint John has taken the flowers and festival of 
heathen Balder ; and in every village there is a May-pole fifty feet high, 
with wreaths and roses and ribands streaming in the wind, and a noisy 
weather-cock on top, to tell the village whence the wind cometh and 
whither it goeth. The sun does not set till ten o'clock at night ; and the 
children are at play in the streets an hour later. The windows and 
doors are all open, and you may sit and read till midnight without a 
candle. O, how beautiful is the summer night, which is not night, but a 
sunless yet unclouded day, descending upon earth with dews and shad- 
ows and refreshing coolness ! How beautiful the long, mild twilight, 
which like a silver clasp unites to-day with yesterday ! How beautiful 
the silent hour, when Morning and Evening thus sit together, hand in 
hand, beneath the starless sky of midnight ! From the church-tower in 
the public square the bell tolls the hour, with a soft, musical chime ; and 
the watchman, whose watch-tower is the belfry, blows a blast in his 
horn, for each stroke of the hammer, and four times, to the four corners 
of the heavens, in a sonorous voice he chaunts, — 

" Ho ! watchman, ho-! 
Twelve is the clock ! 
God keep our town 
From fire and brand 
And hostile hand ! 
Twelve is the clock ! " 

From his swallow's nest in the belfry he can see the sun all night long ; 
and farther north the priest stands at his door in the warm midnight, 
and lights his pipe with a common burning-glass. 

Page 211, The Feast of the Leafy Pavilions. 

The Feast of the Tabernacles. 

In Swedish, Lofhyddohogtiden, the Leaf-huts'-high-tide. 

Page 211. Horberg. 

The peasant-painter of Sweden. He is known chiefly by his altar- 
pieces in the village churches. 

Page 211. Wallin. 

A distinguished pulpit-orator and poet. He is particularly remarkable 
for the beauty and sublimity of his psalms. 

Page 248, All the Foresters of Fla?iders. 

The title of Foresters was given to the early governors of Flanders, ap 
pointed by the kings of France. Lyderick du Bucq, in the days of Clo- 
taire the Second, was the first of them ; and Beaudoin Bras-de-Fer, who 
stole away the fair Judith, daughter of Charles the Bald, from the French 
court, and married her in Bruges, was the last. After him the title of 
Forester was changed to that of Count. Philippe d'Alsace, Guy de 
Dampierre, and Louis de Crecy, coming later in the order of time, were 
therefore rather Counts than Foresters. Philippe went twice to the Holy 
Land as a Crusader, and died of the plague at St. Jean-d'Acre, shortly 
after the capture of the city by the Christians. Guy de Dampierre died 
in the prison of Compiegne. Louis de Crecy was son and successor of 
Robert de Bethune, who strangled his wife, Yolande de Bourgogne, with 
the bridle of his horse, for having poisoned, at the age of eleven years, 
Charles, his son by his first wife, Blanche d'Anjou. 

Page 248. Stately dames, like queetts attended. 

When Philippe-le-Bel, king of France, visited Flanders with his queen, 
she was so astonished at the magnificence of the dames of Bruges, that 



motes. 365 

she exclaimed : " Je croyais etre seule reine ici, mais il parait que ceux 
de Flandre qui se trouvent dans nos prisons sont tous des princes, car 
leurs femmes sont habillees commc des princesses et des reines. " 

When the burgomasters of Ghent, Bruges, and Ypres went to Paris 
to pay homage to King John, in 1351, they were received with great 
pomp and distinction ; but, being invited to a festival, they observed that 
their seats at table were not furnished with cushions ; whereupon, to 
make known their displeasure at this want of regard to their dignity, they 
folded their richly embroidered cloaks and seated themselves upon them. 
On rising from table, they left their cloaks behind them, and being in- 
formed of their apparent forgetfulness, Simon van Eertrycke, burgomas- 
ter of Bruges, replied, " We Flemings are not in the habit of carrying 
away our cushions after dinner." 

Page 248. Knights who bore the Fleece of Gold. 

Philippe de Burgogne, surnamed Le Bon, espoused Isabella of Portu- 
gal on the loth of January, 1430; and on the same day instituted the 
famous order of the Fleece of Gold. 

Page 248. / beheld the gentle Mary. 

Mane de Valois, Duchess of Burgundy, was left by the death of her 
father, Charles-le-Temeraire, at the age of twenty, the richest heiress of 
Europe. She came to Bruges, as Countess of Flanders, in 1477, and in 
the same year was married by proxy to the Archduke Maximilian. Ac- 
cording to the custom of the time, the Duke of Bavaria, Maximilian's 
substitute, slept with the princess. They were both in complete dress, 
separated by a naked sword, and attended by four armed guards. 
Marie was adored by her subjects for her gentleness and her many other 
virtues. 

Maximilian was son of the Emperor Frederick the Third, and is the 
same person mentioned afterwards in the poem of Nuremberg as the 
Kaiser Maximilian, and the hero of Pfinzing's poem of Teiierdauk. 
Having been imprisoned by the revolted burghers of Bruges, they re- 
fused to release him, till he consented to kneel in the public square, and 
to swear on the Holy Evangelists and the body of Saint Donatus, that 
he would net take vengeance upon them for their rebellion. 

Page 248. The bloody battle of the Spurs of Gold. 

This battle, the most memorable in Flemish history, was fought under 
the walls of Courtray, on the nth of July, 1302, between the French and 
the Flemings, the former commanded by Robert, Comte d'Artois, and 
the latter by Guillaume de Juliers, and Jean, Comte de Namur. The 
French army was completely routed, with a loss of twenty thousand in- 
fantry and seven thousand cavalry ; among whom were sixty-three 
princes, dukes, and counts, seven hundred lords-banneret, and eleven 
hundred noblemen. The flower of the French nobility perished on that 
day; to which history has given the name of the Journee des Eperous 
d' Or, from the great number of golden spurs found on the field of battle. 
Seven hundred of them were hung up as a trophy in the church of Notre 
Dame de Courtray ; and, as the cavaliers of that day wore but a single 
spur each, these vouched to God for the violent and bloody death of 
seven hundred of his creatures. 

Page 248. Saw the fight at Minnewater. 

When the inhabitants of Bruges were digging a canal at Minnewater, 
to bring the waters of the Lys from Deynze to their city, they were 
attacked and routed by the citizens of Ghent, whose commerce would 
have been much injured by the canal. They were led by Jean Lyons, 
captain of a military company at Ghent, called the Chaperons Blaiics. 
He had great sway over the turbulent populace, who, in those prosper- 



366 flotes. 

ous times of the city, gained an easy livelihood by laboring two or three 
days in the week, and had the remaining four or five to devote to public 
affairs. The fight at Minnewaterwas followed by open rebellion against 
Louis de Maele, the Count of Flanders and Protector of Bruges. His 
superb chateau of W^ondelghem was pillaged and burnt ; and the in- 
surgents forced the gates of Bruges, and entered in triumph, with Lyons 
mounted at their head. A few days afterward he died suddenly, per- 
haps by poison. 

Meanwhile the insurgents received a check at the village of Nevele ; 
and two hundred of them perished in the church, which was burned by 
the Count's orders. One of the chiefs, Jean de Lannoy, took refuge in 
the belfry. P>om the summit of the tower he held forth his purse filled 
with gold, and begged for deliverance. It was in vain. His enemies 
cried to him from below to save himself as best he might ; and, half suf- 
focated with smoke and flame, he threw himself from the tower and per- 
ished at their feet. Peace was soon afterwards established, and the 
Count retired to faithful Bruges. 

Page 248. The Golden Dragon s 7iest. 

The Golden Dragon, taken from the Church of St. Sophia, at Constan- 
tinople, in one of the Crusades, and placed on the belfry of Bruges, was 
afterwards transported to Ghent by Philip van Artevelde,' and still adorns 
the belfry of that city. 

The inscription on the alarm-bell at Ghent is, " Myncn nacm is Ro- 
land ; a Is ik klep is er brand, and a Is ik luy is er victoric in hct land." 
My name is Roland ; when I toll there is fire, and when I ring there is 
victory in the land. 

Page 252, Thai their great imperial city stretched its hand through 
every clime. 

An old popular proverb of the tower runs thus : — 

" Niirnbergs Hand 

Geht durch alle Land^'' 

Nuremberg's hand 
Goes through every land. 

Page 252. Sat the poet Melchior singing Kaiser Maximilian s praise. 

Melchior Pfinzing was one of the most celebrated German poets of the 
sixteenth century. The hero of his Teuerdankwa.s the reigning emperor, 
Maximilian ; and the poem was to the Germans of that day what the Or- 
lando Furioso was to the Italians. Maximilian is mentioned before, in 
the Belfry of Bruges. See page 248. 

Page 252. In the church of sainted Sebald sleeps enshrined his holy dust. 

The tomb of Saint Sebald, in the church which bears his name, is one 
of the richest works of art in Nuremberg. It is of bronze, and was cast 
by Peter Vischer and his sons, who labored upon it thirteen years. It is 
adorned with nearly one hundred figures, among which those of the 
Twelve Apostles are conspicuous for size and beauty. 

Page 252. In the chiirch of sainted Lawrence stands a pix of sculpture 
rare. 

This pix, or tabernacle for the vessels of the sacrament, is by the hand 
of Adam Kraft. It is an exquisite piece of sculpture in white stone, and 
rises to the height of sixty-four feet. It stands in the choir, whose richly 
painted windows cover it with varied colors. 

Page 253. Wisest of the Twelve Wise Masters. 

The Twelve Wise Masters was the title of the original corporation of 
the Mastersingers. Hans Sachs, the cobbler of Nuremberg, though 



HaotCS, 367 

not one of the original Twelve, was the most renowned of theMastersing- 
ers, as well as the most voluminous. He flourished in the sixteenth 
century ; and left behind him thirty-four folio volumes of manuscript, 
containing two hundred and eight plays, one thousand and seven hun- 
dred comic tales, and between four and five thousand lyric poems. 

Page 253. .-Is in Adam Puschman s so/t^i,'-. 

Adam Puschman, in his poem on the death of Hans Sachs, describes 
him as he appeared in a vision : — 

" An old mail. 
Gray and white, and dove-like, 
Wlio had, in sooth, a great beard, 
And read in a fair, great book, 
Leautiful with golden clasps." 

Page 273. Walter von dcr Vogclweidc. 

Walter von der Vogelweide, or Bird-Meadow, was one of the principal 
Minnesingers of the thirteenth century. He triumphed over Heinrich 
von Ofterdingen in that poetic contest at Wartburg Castle, known in 
literary history as the War of Wartburg. 

Page 278. Like Imperial Cfiarlema§ne. 

Charlemagne may be called by pre-eminence the monarch of farmers. 
According to the German tradition, in seasons of great abundance, his 
spirit crosses the Rhine on a golden bridge at Bingen, and blesses the 
cornfields and the vineyards. During his lifetime, he did not disdain, 
says Montesquieu, " to sell the eggs from the farmyards of his domains, 
and the superfluous vegetables of his gardens ; while he distributed 
among his people the wealth of the Lombards and the immense treasures 
of the Huns." 

Page 293. 

Behold, at last. 

Each tall and tapering mast 

Is swtiug into its place. 

I wish to anticipate a criticism on this passage, by stating, that some- 
times, though not usually, vessels are launched fully rigged and sparred. 
I have availed myself of the exception as better suited to my purposes 
than the general rule ; but the reader will see that it is neither a l)lunder 
nor a poetic license. On this subject a friend in Portland, Maine, writes 
me thus : — 

" In this State, and also, I am told, in New York, ships are sometimes 
rigged upon the stocks, in order to save time, or to make a show. There 
was a fine, large ship launched last summer at Ellsworth, fully rigged 
and sparred. Some years ago a ship was launched here, with her rig- 
ging, spars, sails, and cargo aboard. She sailed the next day and — was 
never heard of again ! I hope this will not be the fate of your poem ! " 

Page 300. Sir Hionphrey Gilbert. 

"When the wind abated and the vessels were near enough, the Ad- 
miral was seen constantly sitting in the stern, with a book in his hand. 
On the 9th of September he was seen for the last time, and was heard by 
the people of the Hind to say, ' We are as near heaven by sea as by 
land. ' In the following night, the lights of the ship suddenly disappeared. 
The people in the other vessel kept a good lookout for him during the 
remainder of the voyage. On the 22(1 of Sei:)tember they arrived, through 
much tempest and peril, at Falmouth. Hut nothing more was seen or 
heard of the Admiral." — Belknap's American Biography, I. 203. 



368 moteg. 

Page 318. The Blind Girl of Castel-Ctiim. 

Jasmin, the author of this beautiful poem, is to the South of France 
what Burns is to the South of Scotland,— the representative of the heart 
of the people,— one of those happy bards who are born with their mouths 
full of birds {la botico plena d'aouzelous). He has written his own biog- 
raphy in a poetic form, and the simple narrative of his poverty his 
struggles, and his triumphs, is very touching. ' 






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